


Nero su bianco

by zuzallove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Epistolary, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-06 15:09:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16390034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzallove/pseuds/zuzallove
Summary: September 1997. Hogwarts is under the regime of Voldemort and the Carrows. Finding himself alienated by both his friends and his supposed enemies, Draco puts quill to parchment, and writes letters. He addresses them to the only person he can think of, as Hogwarts rapidly falls into chaos and ruin: Harry Potter. He goes to great lengths to ensure the letters are never discovered, and he’s pretty certain he’s done a great job.Until the day of his trial.





	1. Letters to Potter

**Chapter 1: Letters to Potter**

 

 

Sept. 15th, 1997

 

_~~Dear~~ _ _Potter,_

_I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Crabbe and Goyle are all too happy about the current situation. Theo is scared, but it’s obvious he also believes that this is a good thing for us. Purebloods, that is. Blaise is cautious – I suspect, deep down, that he thinks this is all crazy, ridiculously cruel and insane. But he won’t say a word about it. Pansy is just ecstatic, and I can’t bear hearing her rants. She’s always going on and on about how this is how it should have always been, and how we’re finally going to get our rightful place, and how the Dark Lord will lead us in our conquest of those filthy Muggles. We’ll be Kings and Queens, she told me a few days ago. I wanted to hex her so bad, my fingers were itching for my wand._

_What does she know? All she’s been asked to do is go to school, get her NEWTs, and marry a Pureblood. Her father’s role in this is purely economic. He’s the money. He provides artefacts and books, and his dungeons, like ours, are being used as a prison, but that’s it. Everyone knows the man is terrible with a wand, so he’s not been asked to actively participate in this whole circus. So, what does she know, really? She’s not afraid of opening her mail and finding out that her parents have been killed._

_This is horrible, Potter. This is… beyond fixing._

_I know what you’re thinking, I just do – “Oh, yeah, Malfoy, sure,” you’d sneer. “Of course, you don’t like it now that Daddy’s disgraced and you’ve realised you’re a gutless weasel who can’t even kill a frail, disarmed old man”. I don’t – it’s. I know. I hate that Father is in this position. I hate that I couldn’t just kill the old coot, redeem our name amongst the Death Eaters and make it like just a tiny bit better for my parents. I just… hate it. But it’s not like you think. This is_ wrong _. It’s like the castle is sick, Potter. You have no idea. The walls are darker, the air is different, and even the students who are supposed to be enjoying this are walking around with… I don’t know how to explain it. Everyone is getting cruel, ugly and things are just... Hogwarts has changed._

_Your Gryffindors are putting up a good fight. That Longbottom is always sporting some bruise or cut, always challenging the Carrows, and you have no idea how much I… I know I could never join him. I have to side with them._

_I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m burning this letter._

 

 

Sept. 19th, 1997

 

_My mother came to see me today. I was told to go to Alecto Carrow’s office, and there she was, stepping out of the fireplace. She asked Alecto to leave the room. She clearly wasn’t happy about it, but Mother still commands a certain respect. She still carries herself like she’s in charge. Worthless pieces of shit like Alecto and her brother have been sucking up to the Malfoys for countless generations. We still manage to scare them, if we wish to do so. But deep down, they’re all enjoying our misfortune. They think we deserve it, they’re just careful about letting it show. Especially in front of Mother._

_But the moment Alecto closed the door behind her, Mother… she broke down._

_Things are bad. Really bad. Back home, I mean. The Dark Lord has taken my father’s wand and he has not been allowed to get a new one. “You will remain wandless for as long as you remain useless,” the Dark Lord has told him. “You don’t deserve one”. I cannot even begin to understand the humiliation he’s going through. Having to ask my mother for her wand just to close some curtains, or to Apparate. Not that they go anywhere. They’re not allowed. My mother’s visit was an exception, apparently._

_She begged me, Potter. She begged me to do something. She doesn’t even know what. She knows I can’t tell them where you are, how would I know? But she said that maybe your friends knew, and yes, no one has been able to pry that information from them yet, but maybe I could try? She suggested I procure some Veritaserum, but how would I do that? She’s desperate. She apologised for the burden she was placing on my shoulders, but I understood._

_I just wish there was something I could do, because after I thought about it for a long time, I’ve come to realise… I can’t torture anyone. And if Veritaserum is out of question, then that’s the only option I have left. And it’s not viable either._

_I am entirely useless._

 

 

Sept. 26th, 1997

 

_Potter…_

_Today Amycus Carrow tortured Peeves. I didn’t even know a Poltergeist could feel the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, but just so you know… they can. Peeves hid in one of the suits of armour on the ground floor, and then jumped out at Alecto, thinking she was Filch._

_Huh. Now that I think about it, they do kind of look alike._

_Anyway, classic Peeves, right? No. Amycus got so angry at him for spooking his sister that he took out his wand and… it was wrong, Potter. Just… hearing Peeves scream like that? I had to run away. I threw up. The entire castle stared, and no one did anything, not a bloody thing, not until McGonagall stepped forward. Pansy told me later, she was so disappointed that McGonagall had stopped Amycus. The old cat is trying her best to stop them from hurting too many people, but it’s a lost cause. They have Snape’s support and Snape has the Dark Lord’s. The things they’re teaching us – you have no idea._

_It’s sick. It’s sick and twisted, and wrong, and I’m so fucking scared all the time._

_I’m writing these letters to you because you’re all I can think about. There. I’ve said it. Not like you’re going to know, anyway._

_You would have never allowed this to go on. Just the fact that you’re not here with all of us, it’s… it’s like… I keep looking at the Gryffindor table and you aren’t there. A missing limb. The Gryffindors need you. They’re starting to lose heart, day by day they look more and more depressed, more beaten up, more-_

_We need you. Please come back._

 

 

Oct. 12th, 1997

 

_You have to do something._

_I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but you have to stop this. You’re the only one who can._

_I got two letters from home, where the Dark Lord still resides. The first was from Mother, telling me the usual stuff: stay out of trouble, help the Carrows in any way you can and if you hear a whisper about the boy, about Potter, don’t hesitate to write. The second one was from Aunt Bella. She told me the same thing Mother told me in September: the Dark Lord believes your friends know where you are, and they’re about to be tortured for information. Again, she suggested I tried to extract the information first, so we can use it to gain the Dark Lord’s favour once more._

_I considered it. Again. I don’t understand how they expect me to do this, but they’re pinning all their hopes on me._

_I kept looking at them this morning… your girlfriend, Longbottom, the Ravenclaw girl, and I imagined them writhing at my feet, my wand twirling in the air as they screamed for mercy._

_I had an involuntary manifestation of magic. I exploded a glass of pumpkin juice. It hadn’t happened to me since I was four, Potter. Four._

_My friends are suspicious. They still think I am all for this, they still think I’m rooting for the Dark Lord, and that I’m only this depressed because Father isn’t in the Dark Lord’s good graces anymore. But they are starting to see it. They can feel how disgusted I am by all this. They sense I have no taste for murder, torture. All those years I bullied you and everyone around me and isn’t this the sweetest irony? I can practically hear you say it. “All bullies are just cowards in their hearts”. You’re right. I am a coward._

_You’ll never guess where I go to write these letters._

_It’s Hagrid’s hut. Yeah, that’s right. Ever since they drove him away the place is abandoned and… I don’t know. I can stash them here and no one will ever find them. I crouch down in semi-darkness, with barely enough light to write, a piece of parchment, a quill and a bottle of ink, and I write to you. Sometimes I stay here for hours. I tell my friends I’m out investigating, or studying, and sometimes I just tell them to mind their own business. No one would ever guess I’d come down here, anyway. I don’t even know why I’m here. It’s just… You liked this place. I feel your presence here._

_Merlin, that sounded stupid._

 

 

Oct. 17th, 1997

 

_I found a spell. If anyone other than me tries to open these letters, they will burst into flames. I’ve tested it. Took a piece of parchment, wrote down “Goyle loves Crabbe”, enchanted it and sent it to Goyle. He opened it at the breakfast table. His eyebrows have since grown back, but as everyone laughed I admired my handiwork. All that remained of the note was ash. Now that I know for sure that no one is going to read these, I can finally tell you the truth._

_I’ve had a crush on you since July 31 st, 1991. During the years it’s ebbed and flowed, sure, and I only understood it was a crush when we were in fifth year. I saw you in Hogsmeade with that Ravenclaw girl, that Chang, and I got jealous. Even then, it took me months before I figured it out. I went through several phases, which can be summarised as followed: _

  * _I just don’t like you being happy in general._
  * _I hate the idea that someone in your life features more prominently than I do (and isn’t it funny? You considered me an enemy, and still, I enjoyed every second of the attention.)_
  * _I hate that growing up you’ve become so handsome people can’t stop staring at you. That, combined with your fame, makes you a magnet for every single girl – and a lot of boys – and I’m just envious._
  * _Okay, yeah, maybe I want to fuck you. So what? A person can be both attractive and a giant arsehole._
  * _Except, it would be kind of nice to see that look directed at me. The one you had when you were on that stupid date. Like you couldn’t believe how lucky you were to be with someone, like you couldn’t wait to see how that turned out._
  * _Looks aside, you are a nice person. Not with me, of course – I’ve never given you any cause to be – but I’ve seen how you are with your friends. I’ve seen how kindly you treat everyone, something that is so foreign to me, and at the same time… Yes, I wouldn’t mind a piece of that in my life._
  * _Oh Merlin. All these years, I’ve had a crush on you. I like Potter. I like Harry Potter._ _Fuck._



_And there you have it, Potter, the ultimate irony, the best revenge in the world you could possibly get against me: Draco Malfoy wants to kiss Harry Potter._

_I can almost hear you laughing at me, but you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not your style. Cruelty is just not something you’re capable of. No, you would pity me, which is even worse._

_Before all this shit, the fact that I want to slam you against a wall would have just been an inconvenience. An inappropriate crush. Now? Now it could get me killed. Wouldn’t that be funny, Potter? Me getting killed because I secretly like you?_

_Merlin. This is a mess. You have no idea how ugly things are here. Madam Pomfrey is overwhelmed with the number of students she has to take care of, first-years, Potter. First-years in the Infirmary with post-Cruciatus effects. Can you even imagine that? Can you begin to comprehend how awful things are? All the teachers, apart from the Carrows and Snape, are doing their best, but their hands are tied._

_I looked in the mirror today and what I saw scared me. I look like a ghost, Potter. I’m grey-faced. I lost weight. My hair falls on my forehead like a dead thing. I have permanent eyebags. I want to die._

_I want to die, Harry._

 

 

Oct. 31st, 1997

 

_I don’t know why I associate this day with you. Your parents were killed on this day. Maybe it’s that._

_I’m sorry about it. It wasn’t right. Killing them, I mean. In that way…_

_I’m kind of drunk right now, you’ll notice my handwriting – hah. Like you’re actually going to see these letters. See, Potter, I got punished. I couldn’t torture a Hufflepuff girl. She was twelve. It’s not like I refused, Merlin knows I don’t have the guts – I literally couldn’t. I concentrated and said the words and pointed my wand and nothing happened to her. So, Alecto used the Cruciatus on me. Pomfrey has this thing now – this, this potion, I think, I don’t even remember – she gives it to students after the Cruciatus. It makes you happy and relaxed all over, like you’re floating, and Merlin, Potter, it feels good. I’m still aching but I’m also so fucking relaxed._

_I wish you were here. Here in this corner, on the floor, holding me tightly. We would fall asleep like this. I’d touch your hair, finally, something I’ve been wanting to do since day one. See if it can be tamed. Feel if it’s as soft as it looks like. I would wake up with you on the floor, and, and, and the Carrows would be dead. And the Dark Lord, too. As dead as a… I don’t know, a line. I’m not making any sense._

_I miss you. I want you here._

 

 

Nov. 4th, 1997

 

_Blimey, the last letter was embarrassing. I’m pleased to report that by now it has pretty much been accepted that when it comes to the Cruciatus Curse, I’m impotent. I’m incapable of getting it up. Hah-hah. Of course, this was followed by more angry letters by my parents, who get weekly reports about my academic prowess at their little Death Eater conventions, and by another bout of Cruciatus aimed at me in the attempt of straightening me out. It was to no avail, of course. To use the Cruciatus, you have to want to hurt the person. But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want it all to stop. I want you to come back._

_The Dark Lord will find you and kill you. I try to convince myself of that every single day, because I can’t dare to hope. There is no happy ending to this story, Potter. You can’t win this._

_Promise me you’ll try anyway._

 

 

Nov. 17th, 1997

 

_Harry._

_Today, I think, maybe, you would have been proud of me. You would have approved._

_Alecto and Amycus’ attempts at making me use the Cruciatus have not ceased. So, when they put me in front of an eleven year-old this morning, and told me to Crucio him, I mouthed “fake it”. He was a good actor. He fell and writhed and screamed at the top of his lungs. And they bought it! Afterwards they told me to accompany the boy to the Infirmary, and I told him to spread the word. Pomfrey will cover for us, say we’re hurt when we’re actually fine._

_I didn’t expect it to happen so fast, though: by the end of the day most of the students only pretended to cast the Curse and most of the victims pretended to be tortured. Some people are not that great at enacting the scene, though, so this is not going to last. We’ll be found out eventually._

_In the meantime, though, I’m a tiny bit proud of myself._

_I wonder where you are all the time. Do you have a safe house? I know all the places associated with you are Death Eater outposts now, so I hope you’re not as daft as you look, and you don’t try to go there. Are you staying with friends? What friends could you possibly have that the Dark Lord doesn’t know about? Are you wandering the country? Are you by yourself?_

_I just hope you have a plan. You’re going to need a good one._

 

 

Nov. 22nd, 1997

 

_Where are you?_

_I hear whispers about you all the time. Each less likely than the other. There are people saying you’re abroad, taming dragons to use them in the war. Some say you’re already dead. A girl this morning swore that she saw you in Hogsmeade, buying a spotted owl._

_The Dark Lord is going mad looking for you, but every time they hear something, or they think they’re getting closer, you disappear into thin air. I bet it’s Granger. Granger must be keeping you on the move. Smart girl. You can’t let them catch you, Harry. Longbottom has two black eyes and a limp, and he’s fighting like a madman in your name. You can’t let him down. You can’t let me down._

_I’ve been fantasising a lot these days. I wake up in the morning and for a second, all I can see is green eyes. I spend my classes daydreaming, imagining I chose the right side, and that I was fighting at your side._

_This is ridiculous. You’re straight. You have a girlfriend._

_She’s staying strong, by the way. She’s fighting with your friends, and I admire her. I also hate her._

_Today Snape gave a speech. Apparently, starting next week, we’ll have to suffer through another round of random interrogations. They usually leave me alone when this happens – they still think I’m rooting for them – but it’s bad news for your friends. I… well. Here’s the thing._

_I’m trying to protect them. But it’s hard. First, it’s hard because I hate them. Secondly, it’s hard because I have to be very subtle about it. Third, they’re a bunch of reckless morons who are constantly challenging the Carrows without a strategy, or cunning. Getting themselves into trouble just for the sake of it. Bloody Gryffindors. But I am doing my best, because it’s the only thing I can do that will… I don’t know. You’ll never know about it. But just knowing that I am doing something that would hypothetically please you makes me feel better. I cast a Protego on your girlfriend the other day – Crabbe was trying to hex her – and no one, including her, will ever know it was me._

_I think about kissing you every day._

 

 

Dec. 1st, 1997

 

_It’s December. A few weeks and I will have to go home for Christmas and I’m fucking terrified._ He _is going to be there. I wonder if he’ll stay for Christmas. Can you imagine the Dark Lord slicing up a turkey? Sharing a cracker with Father?_

_I don’t want to go. I asked my parents if I could stay, but apparently,_ he _asked for me. Just another way he can torture Father, seeing me squirm and tremble at his sight in my own home. I’m sick at the prospect._

_What the hell are you going to do for Christmas? I imagine you’ll hardly notice it when it comes. You must be so busy and in such danger that Christmas is of no consequence to you. I keep having this fantasy where I run away, to try and find you. Join you. Ask for the same protection Dumbledore offered me on that tower. It’s fucking stupid and I’ll never do it. I wouldn’t last a day. But I can’t stop thinking about it, I… I want you. So bad. I cannot for the life of me figure out why it took me so long to get to this point and why I wasted all those years. Years, Harry. I could have told you this years ago, I could have tried to be a better person for you, I could have foreseen my father’s mistakes. I will never be able to go back. I will never be able to change the past. I will never be able to tell you._

_If I died tomorrow, and these days it’s not unlikely, this would be my main regret. I fucked everything up._

 

 

Dec. 20th, 1997

 

_I got another letter from Father. The Dark Lord is getting impatient, and he says things are bad. Worse than ever. He’s taking it out on my family, Aunt Bella included, and right now we’re a target. At home and here. I try to keep my head down and be as invisible as I can, but people just won’t leave me alone. Your friends try to pick a fight with me every time they catch me alone. My “friends” are disgusted by my father’s weakness and have been tormenting me. Taunting me. Their parents probably told them to do so. Crabbe tried to hex me the other day. “Six years,” he snarled at me after I protected myself. “Six years I’ve been told to do what you wanted and to be a stupid fucking servant to you, and now? You’re nothing, Malfoy. You’re pathetic.”_

_My friends hate me, your friends hate me, and all the other students look at me with barely-conceived revulsion. I’m everyone’s enemy._

_I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. Fuck, you probably don’t want to hear this. “Look at Malfoy”, you’d think, “complaining and whining and playing the victim when I’m the one on the run, probably eating bugs to survive and fearing for my life every single day as the most powerful dark wizard who ever lived hunts me down.”_

 

_You’re right. I’m sorry. Hah! You didn’t think I even knew the words to apologise, huh? Well, joke’s on you. Apologising is all I can think about._

_Potter… if you come back, if you win this war, I don’t know what you’ll find instead of the Draco Malfoy you knew. I’m kind of slipping away. Not that you’d care._

_I miss you._

 

 

Jan. 7th, 1998

 

_You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive._

_I can’t believe they almost caught you. I can’t fucking believe it. How could you be so stupid? Godric’s Hollow, really? I can’t believe it. But you’re alive. You made it out. After they told me the news, I excused myself and I went to my room. I giggled for about a minute, and then I started to cry. The general mood, afterwards, was strange. The Dark Lord went into one of his fits of rage, killed a couple of Mudbloods to feel better, and then retired to the master bedroom, the one who used to belong to my parents, to fume in solitude. Everyone else was on edge, careful not to attract too much attention to themselves, but I think they were also kind of excited. Sure, you escaped, but they almost had you. They think you’re bound to make another mistake, and then they’ll capture you. But now I’m back._

_Finally. Fucking finally. Just a few weeks without being able to write to you and it felt like a lifetime. I don’t know when exactly I became so dependent on these little letters, I don’t even know why I am writing them, but the last month has been… it’s indescribable. A nightmare. A constant horror. The worst month of my life. And that’s saying something._

_I was tortured. I was taunted. I had to see my father beg the Dark Lord for food at Christmas dinner._

_Afterwards, the Dark Lord came into my room. I hyperventilated when I saw him come in – that was my sacred space, the only place I could escape him, he couldn’t be there. He did nothing. Just reminded me of how pleased he would be if I heard a rumour about your whereabouts and reported it to him. Of how my family’s situation would improve._

_I think he just did it to remind me that my own home isn’t mine anymore. He’s everywhere, Harry. Going back to school was a relief, and at the same time… the castle is bleeding. It’s bleeding and it’s beyond recognition and I want this to end so much. I can’t see another corpse. I can’t see another kid getting tortured._

_I’m going to die._

_But you’re alive. Somehow, that matters more than everything else._

_Happy New Year, Harry._

 

 

January 29th, 1998

 

_You almost got caught._

_You. Almost. Got. Caught._ AGAIN _._

_You stupid moron. You unbelievably stupid boy. What the hell were you doing at Lovegood’s? What the hell were you thinking? I know his daughter never came back from the holidays, but you couldn’t be so stupid as to go and look for her there, right? The Dark Lord has her. You can’t have been that stupid._

_Father wrote to me yesterday and explained everything. Travers and Selwyn are still recovering after the Dark Lord got his hands on them. They… they will not be hurting anyone for a good while, I believe. And that’s a relief._

_But you. Merlin, I want to smack you, and punch you, and kiss you until we both can’t breathe. You beautiful, reckless imbecile of a Gryffindor._

_I just hope all these stupid fucking things you’re doing are for a purpose. That you know what you’re doing, at least a tiny bit. The Death Eaters are confused as to what you’re trying to do, your movement patterns are haphazard, and every time they come up with a new theory, you do something that forces them to change their mind. Maybe that’s exactly  what you want. The Dark Lord goes very quiet every time someone brings up your true intent, and I suspect he has a theory of his own, though he won’t share it with anyone. I hope Granger is forcing you to follow some semblance of a plan, because I know that if it were up to you and just you, you would simply walk into the Manor, wand ablaze, taking on the Dark Lord yourself. How did I end up having feelings for such a bloody idiot?_

_Just stay alive, idiot. Stay alive._

 

 

Feb. 2nd, 1998

 

_I woke up this morning feeling like something had happened to you. I have no idea what, though._

_Things here are stable. Your girlfriend is sad because her Ravenclaw friend is missing, but Longbottom is fighting harder than ever. Crabbe and Goyle have been selected by the Carrows for some sort of secret future Death Eater training, and they come back to the Dungeons every night with smug, scary looks on their mugs. Merlin knows what atrocities they’ve been teaching them. It makes sense that they would choose those two. Dumb enough that they don’t question the process and cruel enough to learn even the darkest of practices._

_I feel stupid writing these letters. But after I write a new one, here, in this musty old hut, crouching on the floor, it’s as if things were just a tiny bit easier. As if I were actually writing to you. Talking to you. In my head, you’re a lot nicer to me than you would be in real life. You laugh with me. You smile. It’s a torture in its own right, imagining you being sweet to me. I know it’s impossible. It’s just a fantasy. But when I write these letters, it feels more real._

_I’ve decided to keep them here, for the time being. I will destroy them after graduation._

_Graduation… Merlin. What the hell am I going to do afterwards? Be a lackey? Pretend to enjoy death and enslavement? Listen to me. Two years ago, I would have been thrilled._

_You are right to hate me. Just because I don’t have a taste for murder, it doesn’t mean I don’t deserve what’s happening to me. I’ve spent most of my life rejoicing in other people’s misery and thinking I was better than them. I will never be able to make amends for this._

_The thing that kills me is that I’ll never even have the guts to try._

_I miss you. I would give anything to hear you insult me again._

 

 

Feb. 3rd, 1998

 

_I know, I know. I just wrote to you yesterday._

_Pansy seems to be under the impression that we’ll get married after our NEWTs. She’s not too happy about it, but apparently, she believes that with her father’s help she can turn me into the perfect little cold-blooded killer the Dark Lord demands. She thinks we should distance ourselves as much as possible from my father, and that we should have children right away. I let her talk. I couldn’t fight the nausea, though._

_I don’t know how much of this is her personal fantasy and how much is real. She’s always wanted this, always begging for her father to talk to mine and propose a match. I’ve always told my father I could do better than her, and he agreed. But right now, what do our wishes amount to? If the Dark Lord says I marry Pansy, I marry Pansy. That’s it._

_I know my life is over. I’ve known it since the day I was summoned and commanded to kill Dumbledore. Somehow, this makes it final._

_A braver man would have killed himself already._

 

 

Feb. 14th, 1998

 

_Happy Valentine’s day._

_Your girlfriend has been walking around all day looking so fucking sad. I know she’s thinking of you. I know you think of her, too._

_Pansy has given me a leather-bound notebook, smiling her sickeningly sweet smile at me. I thought she expected a gift from me, but all I could give her was a nod. The moment she walked away, I tossed the notebook in the fire. I couldn’t bear to look at it._

_Father writes to me almost every day now. He’s getting desperate. Everyone is. Whatever you’re doing to stay hidden… good job. Keep going._

_The Carrows walk around the place as if they owned it. Snape is hardly ever around – always running some errand for the boss. McGonagall looks more and more defeated each day,  but I’m oddly… proud? She will never stop fighting for us. That woman is made of sterner stuff than I will ever be._

_I miss you so fucking much. I’ve taken to repeating your name in my head when things get too ugly for me to cope. It’s stupid and I need to stop, because soon I’ll have to go home for Easter Holiday and the Dark Lord is too good a Legilimens for me to have this habit._

_I’ve been practising Occlumency every day since January. I’ve realised it’s my best weapon, if not the only one, against him. I can be a target, a laughing stock, but my thoughts need to be mine alone. I will protect them with everything I’ve got._

 

 

Feb. 19th, 1998

 

_Yesterday a Hufflepuff girl got tortured for proclaiming at the dinner table that you would defeat the Dark Lord._

_She was stupid, of course. We’re all thinking it – hoping – but to say it out loud, well, that’s just asking for trouble. She will always have a limp, apparently. Crabbe was bragging about it in the Dungeons. I couldn’t stay still. I hexed him from under the table. He’ll never know who did it, but I know he’s suspicious of me. Once Madam Pomfrey returned his face to normal, he immediately turned to throw furtive glances at me. It doesn’t matter, he has no proof._

_I’ve become something of a specialist at blind casting. I’ve been working on my non-verbal spell skills so that I can just wave my wand from underneath the table and cast a Protego across the room. It’s efficient, but I have to be careful. People are already wondering who the hell is casting all those Shield Charms. I can’t have them figure out that I’m always present when it happens. So, most of the time, I just have to stay still when someone gets hexed or cursed. And watch._

_People are still pretending to writhe and scream when I’m forced to Crucio them. The Carrows are definitely suspicious now._

 

 

March 1st, 1998

_  
Harry._

_You’ll see from my handwriting that I’m not in great shape._

_The Carrows found out. It’s been… well, I have no words to describe it. They wrote to my parents and to the Dark Lord, told them that I have been lying, that I can’t perform the Cruciatus Curse. The Dark Lord told them to do whatever they wanted with me. My parents didn’t even write back._

_My torture was long. They made sure they didn’t cause any permanent damage. I’m still a Pureblood, after all. My fingers are all bent out of shape, though, some new curse they’ve been using…_

_They also took a page out of old Umbridge’s book: they made me write ‘I’m a revolting weakling’ a hundred times with one of her special quills. A sick, twisted part of me wished the words would stay on the back of my hand. Forever. So we would have something in common._

_They didn’t allow it, though. Lucius Malfoy’s son is disgusting and weak, but to mark him up forever? That’s reserved to Mudbloods, and Muggles, and traitors._

_I’d give anything to see you one last time._

 

 

March 4th, 1998

 

_I’m not going to survive this._

_I’ve realised it this morning. All this time I’ve been thinking I could do this, play my part, pretend to be on their side, but now I know. I can’t just pretend. I have to be on their side. I have to earn back the Dark Lord’s trust._

_If it were just up to me, I’d give up. Kill myself. Or let him kill me. But he has my family, Harry. He’d kill Mother. I can’t let that happen._

_Until now, I’ve always figured I would be useless to the Dark Lord’s cause, but at least that would give me some sort of leeway, a way to stay away from the actual action. But if war breaks out… if they catch you?_

_I won’t be allowed to stand by and watch. I would have to fight you. You and your friends. I won’t have a choice. And not only that… I will have to pretend that I enjoy hurting them. Hurting you._

_I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it. I probably won’t. I can’t kill, torture or maim anyone, let alone people who I secretly support. Especially when I know that hurting them means hurting you. And the idea of hurting you…? Wow. Things really have changed. I can’t even bear the thought, apparently._

_I’m not going to survive this._

 

 

March 13th, 1998

 

_I’ve realised something, Harry. Yes, I won’t survive this. But isn’t that better? I won’t have to marry Pansy. I won’t have to see people die anymore. I won’t be forced to endure one humiliation after another, like my father. Is death really the scariest option here?_

_I’ve been trying to convince myself for days. But I can’t deny that a small part of me wants to fight._

_I’m terrified of death. I’m seventeen. There’s so much I want to do. But I won’t, will I? Either we win this war, and my life is over, or we lose, and my life would be… Azkaban, I suppose. I’ve taken too many precautions, I’ve hidden everything away, I’ve placed the curse... No one will ever know what I really think, and if I got arrested tomorrow, and told them everything… they would laugh at me. Nobody would believe me, not even you._

_Especially not you._

_My life will either be spent servicing the Dark Lord until he finally decides he can do without my annoying, weak presence, or in an Azkaban cell._

_So why do I fear death this much? Surely it can’t be worse than this._

 

 

March 20th, 1998

 

_I won’t be able to write for a week. I’m going home for the Easter Holidays. If it’s going to be anything like Christmas, there’s a chance I’ll never come back here._

_If I had one wish, one last wish, it would be this: will you visit my grave? Not often, maybe even just once. You don’t even have to bring flowers. Just… stand there. Please._

_You’ll never read this. I’m an idiot._

 

 

April 14th, 1998

 

_I can’t believe I’m here._

I saw you _. I saw you, I saw you, I saw you, and I had to fight you, and Merlin, I…_

_I need to calm down. I…_

_Ok, this letter is going to be the longest one yet. It’s also going to be my last one. So, I need to breathe._

_I’m only here to collect my things and talk to Snape. I was allowed one final day at Hogwarts before leaving forever. I’m not going to see this place ever again. I never thought I’d care, but now… I find myself mourning this loss. I never realised how much I loved this place._

_After you came to the Manor – Merlin, you’re the stupidest fucking person alive – the Dark Lord has been… I can’t describe it, Harry. We’re prisoners, now. I’m happy that you ran away, but did you have to do this to us?_

_You were under our roof, and we let you slip through our fingers… There’s no coming back from this kind of mistake. I’d like to say that it was all worth it, because I got to see your face one last time, like I’ve always wanted, but… Harry, he tortured my mother. I had to hear her scream. I had to watch her convulse on the floor._

_Anyway, the Dark Lord has decided that I don’t deserve a full education after all. I’m a weak, miserable, disgusting little halfwit who was not only so stupid that he couldn’t recognise the boy he had been at school with for six years, but also got his wand stolen by said boy._

_That was low, Harry. The Dark Lord won’t let me get a new one. So now both my father and I are wandless, trapped in our own home. The other Death Eaters are treating us like we’re rubbish, strutting around the Manor like it’s theirs, while we are only allowed out of our rooms for meals._

_I never thought this level of humiliation even existed._

_And I recognised you, of course. I think I would recognise you even from under your blasted Invisibility Cloak. I’m sorry I couldn’t just tell them it wasn’t you. Had I told them that I was certain it wasn’t you, you could have left much sooner. Granger wouldn’t have been tortured._

_I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. At first, I didn’t understand why Aunt Bellatrix was so upset at the thought that you had entered her Gringott vault. Everything calmed down after the Goblin reassured her that the sword was a fake, but she has chosen not to tell the Dark Lord about that scare._

_That makes me suspicious._

_You have a plan, don’t you? You’re not just on the run. You are actively trying to stop him. That’s why you get caught so often. It’s because you have to go certain places._

_The fact that you have a plan – and that I’ve seen your face again – is the only thing that gives me some measure of serenity right now. Also, the fact that you’re still with your friends. You’re not alone. I thought one of them might be dead already._

_You’re still fighting. It’s not over yet._

_Well. Not for you, at least._

 

 

**Present day: August 4 th, 1998**

 

 

Harry scratched his nose, squirming uncomfortably on the rock-hard wooden seats of the Wizengamot chamber.

To his left, he could see Kingsley shuffling his papers around, getting ready for a new day of trials. Harry didn’t envy his responsibilities. Most of the time, he would be consulted before deciding the sentence of the accused Death Eater, but the final decision rested with Shacklebolt and the ten members of the specially-appointed committee. They tended to be brutal, feeling as if it was their duty to reassure the wizarding community their suffering and loss were being answered accordingly and mercilessly. However, Kingsley was nothing if not a fair man. He listened to every side, pondered carefully and then delivered an appropriate sentence. A sentence Harry would usually agree with.

It was implicit that his opinion, along with Hermione’s and Ron’s, carried some weight. The three of them had tried to be present at almost every trial, even though the proceedings had now been going on for the better part of three months and Ron had been busy working with George. Hermione, who would soon be off to Hogwarts, hadn’t missed a single one, perfect attendance ingrained in her DNA.  They had never felt the need to weigh in on the final decision and Hermione had warned Harry that it would set a dangerous precedent. Nobody needed to start thinking that they thought themselves above the law.

However, Harry had a feeling today would be the day he would finally speak up. Because today was Draco Malfoy’s trial.

The committee was salivating at the idea of sending the first Malfoy to Azkaban, of course. When they had decided in which order to proceed with the trials, Kingsley had ordered that the Death Eaters with more charges hanging over their heads would go last. That was both practical and tactical: practical, as the lesser criminals would probably have something to say about the top dogs during their hearings. Tactical, because the tiny cells of the Ministry in which the more serious criminals were being held would probably drive them insane and make them more prone to confess.

So, the wizarding community had been following in the Prophet the trials of minor offenders for months, foaming at the mouth when a lot of them got away with very short sentences, or probation, or even just a fine and a warning. Now they wanted blood. They wanted to see the monsters safely behind bars, paying for their crimes.

Harry had thought long and hard about Draco Malfoy and his family. Malfoy had been a scared kid. His mother had saved Harry’s life. Lucius’ crimes couldn’t possibly be overlooked, but Draco’s… He had consulted Ron and Hermione, and found that they all agreed, even though Ron had needed a little coaxing.

Harry was going to suggest mercy. The press was going to give him hell, he knew, but he felt that it was the right thing to do.

“Are you ready?” Kingsley asked him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“I am,” he nodded, grabbing a piece of parchment. He had decided to write down his remarks. Sure, Hermione had written most of it, but he was the one who was going to read it for the Committee and the audience. Kingsley allowed a single journalist and no more than fifty spectators in the gallery during the trials. They would all condemn Draco to life in Azkaban without parole in a heartbeat.

“Bring in the prisoner,” Kingsley told the Aurors. A large man – Head Auror Robards, his future boss – nodded and gave a signal to his men. The large doors creaked open and a man, a boy, really, was walked in.

Harry couldn’t have stopped his sharp intake of breath if he had tried.

Draco was… there were no words to describe him. His eyes cast downwards, he basically dragged himself in, an Auror at each elbow. His feet and hands were chained, and he wore a filthy-looking grey robe that reached his bare feet.

Draco was the first of the ministerial prisoners to face trial, so Harry had never seen how roughly they were being treated. It was obvious they were being kept in less than humane conditions. Kingsley turned to look at him, a small, almost imperceptible frown on his face. So, this was a surprise to him as well. He made a mental note to talk to him about it after the trial.

It was Draco’s face, though, that Harry knew would haunt him for the rest of his days. Draco had always been an attractive boy: sharp features, blond hair, grey eyes, pale, creamy skin… even when he wanted to kill him in cold blood, Harry had always acknowledged this fact.

This was not Draco Malfoy. His dirty robes fit him loosely, like a sheet on a scarecrow. He was so skinny that his cheeks had caved in. His face looked more like a skull with a thin, sickly layer of skin tightly wrapped around it. His eyes looked huge, crazed and lifeless at the same time. His fair complexion was marred by all sorts of blemishes and marks. His lips were cracked. For some reason, this was the detail that shocked Harry the most. His hair hung onto his forehead, longer than Harry had ever seen it, just as limp and defeated as the rest of him.

He turned to look at Hermione sitting right behind him. She and Ron looked sick. Harry could empathise. This version of Draco Malfoy reminded them of Sirius, post-Azkaban. This wasn’t right.

“Trial number 34, August 4th, prisoner 48726,” Kingsley began, after clearing his throat awkwardly. Draco had just been unceremoniously shoved on the interrogation seat. The chains immediately came to life, binding him to the chair. He didn’t even flinch. He looked like he’d been Kissed by a Dementor. “Can the prisoner state his identity for the Committee and for the Chief Prosecuting Wizard?”

For a second, it looked like Draco hadn’t even heard him. Then, his voice broken, he finally answered: 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

The crowd started to whisper, already anxious to see the son of Lucius Malfoy behind bars. Harry’s heart was in his throat. Draco’s eyes had yet to leave the floor.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Kingsley continued. “In light of your involvement in the crimes of the dark wizard Tom Marvolo Riddle, known as Voldemort, you are called upon to answer your charges. You will be judged by Chief Prosecuting Wizard and Interim Minister of Magic Kingsley Theseus Shacklebolt, and by the War Crimes Judicial Committee, in accordance with Ministerial Decree number 987. Our decision will be final, irrevocable and binding. Do you understand these terms?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered. Harry wanted to go there and shake his shoulders. _Wake up_ , he wanted to tell him. _We need you to look alive for this_. _You need to fight._

“You stand accused of the following charges: attempted murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Torture of the Death Eaters Henry Travers, Walden Macnair and Ilyus Avery. During preparation for this trial, it had been implied by several witnesses that you tortured no fewer than four fellow students, all under the age of 13. However, after collecting their testimony, it appears that they were instructed by you to pretend to feel pain under the effects of your Cruciatus Curse. Thus, those accusations have been erased from the record.”

A round of unhappy murmurs went through the room. Some people in the Committee shook their heads. Harry could basically hear what they were all thinking: _Here we go. Another Malfoy getting out using tricks and threats._

Not that it mattered, but Harry believed those students. Draco’s wand had not carried traces of Dark Magic. He would have felt it.

Kingsley went on for a good five minutes just reading the charges. Nothing surprising, Harry thought. Helping Voldemort. Providing him with assets. Giving out information.

“How do you plead to these charges, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco still hadn’t looked up.

“Guilty,” he whispered from his chair. The chains tightened a bit around his wrists and ankles. Everyone in the room looked cheerful except for Harry, Hermione and Kingsley. Harry’s heart constricted at the idea that the Malfoys weren’t even allowed to be present at their son’s trial. The ministerial rules for their imprisonment forbade them from all external contact, visitations included. They hadn’t seen their son in almost three months. It was hard right now not to think of Narcissa’s desperate eyes as she searched the castle for Draco, during the final battle. They loved their son, it couldn’t be denied. If only Draco had a chance to see them… perhaps he would be shaken out of his current stupor.

“To all of them?”

“Yes.”

Kingsley pursed his lips. “Mr Malfoy, we are not just here to punish criminals and avenge the atrocities that have been committed in the last three years. We are looking forward to hearing the truth, to reconstruct what happened. If you have anything to say in your defence, this is the time to speak out.”

Draco, finally, lifted his head. Harry almost flinched, shocked by the intensity of his look. Draco stared at Kingsley with feverish eyes. Only at Kingsley, Harry noticed: he acted as if the members of the Committee, or Harry, were not even there. He had no idea why Draco was avoiding his gaze with such determination, but then again, Draco had been in isolation for almost three months. Perhaps he was disoriented. Or maybe he thought Kingsley was the only one he had to convince. In theory, that was true. The Committee’s decision had already been made, and only a fool would believe otherwise. Their minds had been made up long before he had entered the chamber. Long before the death of Voldemort, even. Never leaving the Minister’s eyes, Draco made his plea.

“I am guilty. I did try to kill Dumbledore, even though in the end I wasn’t capable of it. But I almost killed two other people in the process, Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley.” A rustle of clothes behind Harry told him that Ron had crossed his arms. He had never quite forgiven Malfoy for that episode. “It was not my intention, but I did do it. Everything I did after that… I felt like I had to. For my family. I never enjoyed it, but I did it anyway. It’s true that I am incapable of performing the Unforgivable Curses. Alecto and Amycus Carrow wrote a letter to my parents, informing them of that. I suppose if I had that letter, I could prove it.”

“Head Auror Robards,” Kingsley said, turning to look at the man. The Auror stood at attention. “Please look into the evidence collected at Malfoy Manor. See if you can find this letter.”

“Yes, sir.” The man nodded and then walked away. Harry hoped he would find it. There had been boxes and boxes of evidence from the Manor… the Aurors had barely just scratched the surface. Especially since no one had been brave enough to read Voldemort’s personal correspondence.

“Anything else, Mr Malfoy?” Kingsley went on.

Draco took a shaking breath.

“I have no defence. I did change my mind about siding with the Dark Lord…”

The murmurs went up again. Only Death Eaters called Voldemort that. The words were rapidly becoming taboo.

“Quiet!” Kingsley shouted.

“…You-Know-Who,” Draco continued in a measured tone. “I did change my mind. In the past two years, I’ve had doubts. But I knew that speaking up or switching sides would have meant the death of my family. I can’t prove that I had a change of heart, I can’t prove how disgusted I was by everything that was happening, but it’s the truth. It’s all I can say in my defence.”

“ _LIAR!_ ” a woman shouted from the gallery. Immediately, the room fell into chaos: people stood from their seats, yelling and shaking their fists at the boy in chains.

“All Malfoys are liars!” a red-faced man in his eighties screamed. “Lock him up!”

“That’s enough!” Kingsley cast a Silencing Charm over the crowd. Sullen, they all sat down again. Their scowls looked positively murderous.

“Mr Potter,” Kingsley called him. “I believe you have prepared a statement?”

At the mention of his name, Draco turned to look at him abruptly, his eyes widening. His mouth parted, and Harry had a hard time looking away.

He knew Draco had done horrible things. For the most part, he had just said horrible things. But he was just a scared boy. He had chosen his side just as much as Harry had. He had been given no choice.

“I have, Minister.” Harry unrolled the piece of parchment and stood up. He cleared his throat.

“To the best of my recollection, Draco Malfoy has always exhibited anti-Muggle and anti-Muggleborn views. We were only eleven when he told me that he didn’t think that Muggleborns should be allowed into Hogwarts. He and I have been on bad terms ever since, and he has never missed an opportunity to belittle, bully and insult Muggleborns.”

Draco looked down again. Harry paused for a moment.

“However, as we grew up in close quarters, I started to form the theory that Draco had been almost brainwashed into these beliefs by his father, Lucius Malfoy. I first got the impression that Draco had only been repeating his father’s words, and not actually believing them, when we were in our sixth year. Draco had been tasked with the murder of known Muggleborn defender Albus Dumbledore. This task was assigned to him by Voldemort himself, though he did not believe that Draco would succeed. He just wanted him to pay for his father’s sins. He hoped Draco would get killed in the process.”

Everyone held their breath. Most of them were hearing this for the first time.

“Draco could not kill Albus Dumbledore. In fact, I was there on the Astronomy Tower that night. Dumbledore promised Draco protection, in exchange for his loyalty. In that moment, Dumbledore was weak, injured, and wandless. Killing him would have been extremely easy for Draco. However, he listened to Dumbledore’s words, and started to lower his wand. Let me repeat this: Draco Malfoy started to lower his wand.”

Draco was looking at him in disbelief: was it really so surprising that Harry would defend him? Had he really expected Harry to be in favour of his incarceration? True, the last time he had seen Draco had been in the Great Hall, after the battle. The Malfoys had looked so uncomfortable and so out of place that even the Auror who eventually arrested them had been gentle. As he was taken away, Draco had turned to look at Harry, Ron and Hermione. Harry had assumed they would receive one last, scathing look. Instead, Draco had remained expressionless, only to lower his head again after a second. Maybe he had expected Harry to intervene, and part of him had surely wanted to. But as Hermione kept repeating, they couldn’t impede the course of justice. It was not up to him to decide the fate of Draco Malfoy. But he would help if he could.

“Then the Death Eaters came in, and tried to force him to attack Dumbledore. Even then, he couldn’t. That job was carried out by Severus Snape, and though at the time I did not know this, I am now aware that he did so as a favour to Dumbledore himself, who had asked him to do so months before. Severus Snape intervened because Dumbledore had not wanted Draco to stain his hands with blood: he still believed there was good in Draco. He believed his soul could be redeemed.”

He let that sink in. Dumbledore had believed in Draco. That was the key of his argument.

“Due to my connection with Voldemort, I could sometimes glimpse Draco from his perspective. Voldemort used Draco to torture the Death Eaters who had disappointed him. His deep reluctance to do so was evident. He did not torture those men of his own free will. He was forced to, his parents’ life hanging in the balance.

“In the past year, I have encountered him only twice. The first time was when I was captured, and brought to his family’s Manor. Hermione Granger had used a Stinging Jinx on me, to make me less recognisable. Draco was home. His parents and his Aunt asked him to identify me. I could see it in his face, he knew who I was. We had been at school together for six years. He knew my face. He knew it was me. He said nothing.”

The murmurs went up again. Apparently, Kingsley’s Charm had started to wear off.

Harry looked around, seeing what he had hoped all along, what his statement was really aiming to achieve: the crowd was starting to doubt.

“This gave us the time we needed to escape. Without his silence, we would have all been killed that night, and Voldemort would still be alive.”

Kingsley nodded. This fact had not been made public yet. Harry had sat on it, waiting for the right time. Narcissa’s involvement, though, was already public knowledge. It would have been impossible to explain the events of that night, had her role in it been kept a secret.

“This, along with the role his mother, Narcissa Black Malfoy, played that night, leads me to believe that my initial theory was right: Draco Malfoy was never truly a Death Eater. Not at heart.”

The crowd seemed to be divided: a few of them had started to nod along, probably thinking of what their own sons and daughters would have done in such a situation. Most of them looked livid, though. They could already smell Draco getting away with it. They craved a conviction.

“It is apparent that Draco got caught in a situation from which he would have normally avoided. In fact, his behaviour on the Astronomy Tower the night Dumbledore died indicates that he might have even fought for our side.” He put down the parchment. This was all he and Hermione had written. He felt like he wasn’t quite finished, yet. There was something essential he still had to say. He decided to improvise.

“I’ve been in school with Draco Malfoy for six years,” he continued. From behind, Hermione tapped him on the shoulder, warning him not to go off script. Harry ignored her. Ron sighed loudly. “There were times I wanted to kill him, it’s true. He hasn’t been very nice to me, or my friends, and his bullying was something all of us constantly had to be on the lookout for. At the same time, I noticed that his relationship with his parents, especially his father, was a loving one. If there is one good thing that can be said for the Malfoys, is that they love each other. His parents sent him sweets every Friday. During the Battle of Hogwarts, their only thought was to keep Draco safe. He looked up to his father, and he mimicked his words  and his attitudes. Deep down, all he wanted was attention. But I don’t believe throwing him in a cell for the rest of his life is the right answer here. I think there’s still hope for him – Dumbledore believed there was still hope. I think what he’s gone through is probably punishment enough. You only need to look at him to see it.”

Half the crowd nodded; the other half growled. Harry didn’t care, though. His eyes were fixed on Malfoy’s. Draco looked shocked, confused, a little angry. Maybe even grateful. There was a storm of conflicting emotions carved into his sharp features.

“Before we proceed,” Kingsley intervened, just as the murmurs from were getting louder. “Head Auror Robards? Any luck with that letter?”

Robards was standing at the door. He seemed to be deep into discussion with another Auror, who could barely be seen. They were gesticulating wildly.

“Auror Robards?” Kingsley pressed on. The Head Auror turned to look at the Minister, nodding once to the man on the other side of the door. “Can you give us an update?”

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Robards addressed him. “This Auror is one of my Chief Investigators, Auror Kleegan. He is currently working on collecting evidence at Hogwarts. He has something he’d like to present to you.”

Harry rose his eyebrows. This man was an Auror? Also, why were his robes singed? And… was he missing an eyebrow?

“Relevant to this particular trial?”

“I believe so, Minister,” Robards confirmed.

Harry heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to look at Draco. He looked like a caged animal, staring at Kleegan with something akin to terror in his eyes. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. Harry frowned: did this mean that the man had found incriminating evidence against him? Had Malfoy been lying?

“Ferret looks pretty damn scared,” Ron whispered in his ear.

“Ron, be professional,” Hermione admonished him. Just as Ron petulantly reminded her that they didn’t work here, Kleegan finally spoke.

“Minister,” he started. He looked immensely proud of himself. “As the Head Auror just stated, I’ve been combing through Hogwarts for evidence, since it has been a You-Know-Who base for almost a year. My research has taken me from floor to floor, classroom to classroom, all with full cooperation from the teaching staff, of course. Except for Pince, that woman didn’t quite think the Library ought to…”

“No one cares, Kleegan,” Robards hissed. Someone in the crowd giggled. “Move on.”

“Very well! Very well,” Kleegan replied. He looked flustered. “After a month searching the castle, we were ready to move on. But we figured… the grounds have been abandoned for almost a year. What if a Death Eater was hiding there? What if they had hidden evidence? So, we’ve decided to extend our perimeter. This included the Shrieking Shack, the hidden passages, the greenhouses, and…”

“Kleegan!”

“And Hagrid’s hut! I was getting there, I was getting there. Sheesh. Anyway, we never found anything. Until a couple of hours ago, when we unearthed a bundle of letters, hidden under a plank at Hagrid’s. Our Locating Spells warned us that they were protected by a curse. Nasty one, too! Little bugger almost burnt me hands off!”

The crowd roared with laughter as Robards rubbed his forehead with his hand, embarrassed for his colleague. Kingsley prompted the Auror: “So, what is the content of these letters?”

“Well,” Kleegan continued. “The letters are addressed to Harry Potter.” Harry rose his eyebrows again. What the hell was going on? A strangled whimper made him turn: now Draco’s skin had taken on a greenish tinge, and he seemed to be unable to stop shaking his head. “And the sender…”

“No,” Draco spit out, his tone begging. “No, please.”

“The accused. Draco Malfoy.”


	2. Exculpatory

**Chapter 2: Exculpatory**

 

 

Draco deflated in his seat. Harry was more confused than ever: why would Draco write letters to him? Why would he be scared about other people reading them? If they contained evidence against him, why would they be addressed to Harry? And why were they in Hagrid’s hut?

“And these letters contain pivotal elements to the course of this trial, you are saying?” Kingsley asked.

“Read them and then decide for yourself. Some of them got burnt beyond recognition, but most of them are intact. The important parts are all there.”

“Let the records show that new evidence has been entered into the trial,” Kingsley said to the quill and parchment that were enchanted to document the trials. Kleegan, looking extremely pleased with himself, strolled over and handed over the package of slightly singed, yellowish letters. There were at least ten, Harry noticed.

“Minister, please,” Draco pleaded. “I am begging you… The nature of those letters is extremely, extremely personal. It would be a terrible violation of my privacy to read them in front of an audience. Please, Minister, read them in private.”

Kingsley contemplated Draco with a look that could almost be described as sympathetic. Nevertheless, Harry knew what his answer was going to be. “The accused have no rights to privacy, Mr Malfoy,” he explained in a kind voice. “I understand your reservations, but the law is relentless: post-war trials must be public. And so must the evidence.”

Draco looked ready to pass out. Harry just wanted to know what the hell was in the letters by now.

“Letter number one. Date, September 15th, 1997. Dear… it says: ‘Dear Potter’, but the ‘Dear’ has been crossed out. So, ‘Potter’…”

Other than the fact that the letter had been addressed to him, Harry didn’t understand why Draco had fought for it to remain secret. It was an excellent testimony of his change of heart: he had just spoken of the situation at Hogwarts, and how sickened he was by all of it. So why on earth would he want it to stay hidden? In fact, why hadn’t he presented this evidence himself?

Sure, it was strange to hear Malfoy addressing him in a non-belligerent tone, and Harry did wonder why that was. During the Battle, he hadn’t exactly been warm to Harry. Thinking back, Draco hadn’t been the usual arsehole either. He had tried to get his wand back, but that was expected in the middle of a fight. He had been wary and on high alert, but not vicious. He had even tried to stop Crabbe from killing Harry, Ron and Hermione.

“Letter number two,” Kingsley kept going. Malfoy looked like he wanted to throw up. It wasn’t until the third letter was read aloud that it became apparent why he was so keen on protecting them.

“ _I’m writing these letters to you because you’re all I can think about. There. I’ve said it. Not like you’re going to know, anyway. You would have never allowed this to go on. Just the fact that you’re not here with all of us, it’s… it’s like… I keep looking at the Gryffindor table and you aren’t there. A missing limb. The Gryffindors need you. They’re starting to lose heart, day by day they look more and more depressed, more beaten up, more… We need you. Please come back.”_  Kingsley paused several times in his reading, a frown on his face. Harry felt awkward whispers all around him, but his brain was dead, frozen on those couple of sentences that were seared into his mind: _You’re all I can think about. We need you._

Malfoy had given up protesting. He was once again hanging his head down low, his long, pale hair obscuring his face. The only sign of distress was his laboured breathing and, if one looked closely, the muscle twitching in his jaw. Harry’s stomach was churning.

“Letter number four.”

Again, the letter was proof of Draco’s true character. No one could convict him after hearing this. It was obvious that the boy had not been a fan of Voldemort and that he had been coerced into picking a side. But once again, towards the end… _“You liked this place. I feel your presence here.”_

Kingsley looked uncomfortable. Everyone was slowly realising that what Draco had said was true. This was a terrible invasion of privacy.

Harry propped his elbows forward, staring at the letters with barely concealed amazement and awkwardness. His cheeks were burning hot.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered into his year. “You have to stop Kingsley.”

He ignored her in favour of desperately trying to make eye contact with Draco. _Tell me_ , he thought at him. _Look at me. Tell me. Do I have to stop this? What’s coming next?_

But Draco’s eyes stayed resolutely glued to the floor. Harry wanted to scream.

“Letter number five: October 17th, 1997,” Kingsley continued. “ _I found a spell. If anyone other than me tries to open these letters, they will burst into flames. I’ve tested it. Took a piece of parchment, wrote down “Goyle loves Crabbe”, enchanted it and sent it to Goyle. He opened it at the breakfast table. His eyebrows have since grown back, but as everyone laughed I admired my handiwork. All that remained of the note was ash._ ” Chuckles rose from the audience. Harry tamped down on his smile. He had a feeling something bad was coming. “ _Now that I know for sure that no one is going to read these, I can finally tell you the truth. I’ve had a crush on you since July 31 st, 1991._”

Harry closed his eyes. All around him, chaos erupted. Some of the members of the audience screamed the worst insults at Malfoy, going so far as to try and climb down the banister to grab him. The Aurors intervened, keeping them in their seats, whilst Kingsley demanded silence, amplifying his voice with Sonorus. Behind him, Harry could hear Hermione’s gasp and Ron’s quiet “Fuck”. The only change in Draco was that he had started to shake.

“He’s lying!”

“He’s a traitor!”

“Keep your hands off Harry Potter!”

“Silence! Silence, I say!”

Harry stared a hole in Malfoy’s head. Look up. Look up, damn you, look up.

Kingsley, having properly Silenced the crowd, kept reading. “ _And there you have it, Potter, the ultimate irony, the best revenge in the world you could possibly get against me: Draco Malfoy wants to kiss Harry Potter. I can almost hear you laughing at me, but you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not your style. Cruelty is just not something you’re capable of. No, you would pity me, which is even worse. Before all this shit, the fact that I want to slam you against a wall would have just been an inconvenience. An inappropriate crush. Now? Now it could get me killed. Wouldn’t that be funny, Potter? Me getting killed because I secretly like you?_ ”

Harry’s head was swimming. This couldn’t be happening. Malfoy hated him. He had just written those things to get out of his sentence. But… that made no sense, Harry thought. Malfoy had tried his very best to keep the letters hidden. He had protected them with a Curse. And even if he had wanted to prove that he was no fan of Voldemort, why write about his feelings for Harry? Besides, looking at him right now, it was pretty obvious that those words were no lies.

But how the fuck could Draco have feelings for Harry Potter?

“ _I looked into the mirror today and what I saw scared me. I look like a ghost, Potter. I’m grey-faced. I lost weight. My hair falls on my forehead like a dead thing. I have permanent eyebags. I want to die. I want to die, Harry_.”

Somehow, that was enough.

_I want to die, Harry._

“Minister,” he finally intervened, standing up. Kingsley raised a hand.

“No need, Mr Potter. I think I know what you’re going to say.” Kingsley stood up and motioned for an Auror to collect the letters. “I may have been hasty in denying you a private reading, Mr Malfoy. It is now apparent that these letters violate the privacy of at least two of the people involved in this trial, and should not be public knowledge.”

Once again, the crowd silently shook their fists in rage. They couldn’t yell, but their mouths were forming insults anyway. It was almost comical.

“I’m postponing the sentence until tomorrow. Tonight, we will read these letters in a private session, involving only me, the Committee, and Mr Potter. You can take the prisoner back to his cell. Tomorrow, you will know what we have decided.”

The Aurors took Draco away. They needed to help him stand since it seemed all strength had left him. He was careful never to show his face, though. They dragged him away and beyond the doors without Harry ever seeing his eyes.

“Harry,” Hermione said. She looked shaken. “Did you have any idea?”

“No,” Harry replied. “No idea at all.”

 

 

***  
  


 

“Bloody hell, Harry. That bad?”

Harry downed another shot of whisky. Hermione pursed her lips, clearly disapproving, but Harry could see that she was not going to pester him about his drinking. Not right now.

It was 7 PM. Harry had just walked out of the Ministry, after an intense, gut-wrenching afternoon reading every word of Malfoy’s letters. The only thing Kingsley, he and the Committee could agree on was that they needed to sleep on it before making a final decision. They were set to meet the following day at 10 AM. Draco would hear his sentence one hour later.

“It’s… After all the things that happened to us, after all those battles, this is the one situation I’m not equipped to handle.”

Hermione sighed and took a sip of her white wine. They had chosen to meet at a local Muggle pub, fearful of wizarding ears and possible questions. It was entirely possible that the word had already got out. “Is it true Malfoy fancies you?” he imagined they’d ask. He was not ready for that.

“Harry, it’s okay not knowing how to react to this,” Hermione said in a gentle voice. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now.”

“Yeah, but do you think it’s true?” Ron asked, leaning forward and almost knocking over his beer. He had been especially tactful since the whole debacle happened. Harry was sure Hermione had coached him before this meeting.

“Oh, it’s true,” Harry snickered. “And it’s bloody insane.”

He told them about the letters. About a young man worried sick that one wrong move and he would be in for a gruesome death, trying to protect his family and simultaneously fighting his feelings for the one person who represented everything he was supposed to be against.

“All this time I thought, yeah, Malfoy can’t be too happy, he’s realised this isn’t a game and his Daddy’s let him down. I thought his remorse had more to do with the fact that his expectations had not been met rather than the fact that he had genuinely changed his mind. I figured… if Lucius were still ranking at the top, then yeah, Draco would have probably been pretty damn smug.”

“And you no longer think that?” Harry could hear the carefully concealed scepticism in Ron’s voice.

“I was an idiot for thinking that,” Harry muttered, taking his face into his hands. “He was suffering. So much. So fucking much. He was among the ones we should have protected, and instead… we made assumptions. He would have been a great ally.”

“Harry, you can’t blame yourself, or us, for that matter,” Hermione reminded him softly, touching his shoulder. “We had no way of knowing. And even if we had, we had to think about our safety first. We couldn’t have helped him in any way.”

“We did have a way of knowing.” Harry shook his head. “He lowered his wand. He lowered his wand, Hermione.”

She didn’t reply. There was nothing to say.

“If you ask me, it’s a miracle I didn’t kill him the night of the Battle,” Ron grunted, finishing his beer. “I mean, keep in mind this is Malfoy we’re talking about. Yeah, he fancies you, yeah, he has never killed anyone, but come on. It’s _Malfoy_. Nobody could have predicted this.”

“Maybe,” Harry conceded.

“So he really does… fancy you?” Hermione ventured. “For sure?”

“Oh, yeah.” _I’d give anything to see you one last time. I want to kiss you. Merlin, I want to smack you, and punch you, and kiss you until we both can’t breathe. “_ I don’t see why he would want to fake that.”

“Mmh,” Hermione hummed. “I see your point. It did occur to me that he might have suspected the letters would be found and that he planted exculpating evidence on purpose…”

“I’m not yet convinced that’s not the case,” Ron grumbled.

“But why fake a crush, Ron?” Hermione pressed on. “Why? It makes no sense. He didn’t need to.  He has been humiliated publicly, he has a media storm coming his way, and even if he walks free, what can he do now? He’s a pariah.”

“Maybe he thought pretending to be in love with Harry could, I don’t know, make him look more human?”

“If anything, it’s the thing people will hold against him the most in the next months,” Harry quietly interjected. He wanted three more shots of whisky, for Merlin’s sake. He wanted to just stop thinking for a bloody second, because ever since he had read those letters he had been completely unable to shut his brain up for a single moment. And he needed to be clear-minded for what was going to happen the next day. “They’re going to think it was a last resort. Even worse, if they believe it’s true, they’re going to think he wants to… I don’t know. Taint my name. Corrupt me.”

“So… you won’t… you know?” Hermione asked delicately. Harry stared at her, shock clear on his face.

“I won’t what, Hermione?”

“I was talking about the sentence.”

“Oh.” Harry tried to hold his head high, despite the suspicious looks both his best friends were now giving him. He sighed. “The Committee is pressing for a conviction. They proposed five years, out in three with good behaviour. Kingsley and I argued against it, but… to be honest, right now, I think it would be the best way to protect him.”

Ron wasn’t doing a great job of hiding his enthusiasm. “That’s true,” he nodded. “Especially now that the Dementors have fucked off. Azkaban isn’t that terrible these days, and he can ride out the storm there.”

“But Harry,” Hermione exclaimed. “You heard what Kingsley read. If it’s true he has suicidal tendencies, how is sending him to prison the best option? He won’t survive it. You’ve seen him today. It would be like a death sentence.”

“Also true,” Harry agreed. “I think… I think if I put my foot down, I can keep him out of Azkaban.” He took a large sip of whisky. “But they want to punish him anyway. They don’t want it to get out that a Malfoy got away scot-free. Again. I don’t know what else they’ll suggest, but they won’t be content with a fine and a warning.”

“They’ll probably propose a probation period,” Hermione suggested. “With an Auror checking on him every day and a Tracking Charm.”

“That doesn’t seem too harsh.” Ron sounded almost disappointed.

“His assets are frozen. They’re probably going to want to keep it that way.”

“Bloody ferret will have to find a job,” Ron muttered.

“How is he supposed to find a job?” Harry found himself raising his voice. Right now, he had a very low tolerance for Ron’s attitude. Rationally, he knew Ron had more reasons than most to hate Malfoy. Their families had been at each other’s throats for centuries, but Harry couldn’t understand how anyone could be in the mood to insult Draco after what they’d seen that afternoon. “How? I feel like there’s no solution here. One way or another, he was right in his letters: his life is over. Even in the best-case scenario, I don’t see how he can get out of this with the semblance of a normal life.”

“His mother will probably be acquitted, too,” Hermione mused. “With the wife of Lucius a free woman, it’s possible they’ll get back parts of their estate. Her own Gringotts vault. Maybe even the Manor.”

“I’ll testify in her favour,” Harry added, nodding. “I hope you’re right. She must have some claims to her husband’s wealth, and anyway, she’s a Black. There have to be some assets belonging exclusively to her.”

“Bellatrix and her husband are dead, with no children,” Ron intervened. “I think she has a right to their inheritance. Assets from dead criminals don’t go to the Ministry.”

“That’s right!” Hermione clapped. “So, if Narcissa isn’t convicted, they’ll at least have something to live off.”

“Great.” Harry sighed. “Now I just have to figure out how to look him in the face tomorrow.”

 _Well, that shut them up_ , he thought with a grim sense of satisfaction.

“Harry…” Hermione started again, after exchanging a quick, meaningful look with Ron. Ah, they had that look: the “ _we need to tell Harry something, but he’s not going to like it and we’re afraid he’s going to make a scene”_ face. After his fifth year, he was intimately familiar with it. Irrationally, he took almost pleasure in seeing them panic to come up with a delicate way to say whatever they think he needed to know. “You know, it doesn’t have to be this awkward. We’re all adults, and frankly, it’s not that surprising…”

“Oh, come off it!” Harry scoffed. “Now don’t start pretending you knew all along!”

“It’s bloody annoying when you do that,” Ron agreed, shrugging at her dirty look.

“I’m not!” She looked at the disbelief in their faces. “I’m not, I swear. It’s just… well. Harry and Malfoy always have been a bit obsessed with each other, haven’t they?”

“That was different,” Harry defended himself. “We hated each other. I was suspicious of him. It’s not like I…”

“We were children, Harry. We didn’t know better. It’s not that uncommon to be mean just to attract the other’s attention.” She sent a pointed look towards Ron, who had the decency to blush and look away.

“He wasn’t mean! He was a bully. He lived to torment me and ruin everything for me and accuse me of every stupid…”

“I think he was a scared little boy who had no idea what he was doing, to be honest,” Hermione interrupted him. “He didn’t realise himself for years, right? That’s what he said in the letters. Harry… You’re probably going to fly off the handle, but I need to ask you this.”

Harry locked eyes with her. They silently communicated for a few seconds. Ron managed to keep up, but only because he knew them so well. It was hard to spend a year in a tent with two people and not learn how to interpret their non-verbal signs. A slight raise of Hermione’s eyebrows was all it took for Harry and Ron to figure out what she meant. 

“No!” Harry protested loudly. A few of the patrons turned to look at him. “That’s not… Just because I’m bi…”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“No,” he repeated, trying to keep calm. He knew getting mad would only prove her point. “I’ve never liked him. I’ve never even thought of him that way.”

Hermione sighed and shared a look of exasperation with her boyfriend.

“Harry, I love you and all, mate, but you’re full of shit,” Ron solemnly declared.

Harry stood up and left.

  


***  


 

The next morning Harry woke up and couldn’t find the strength to get out of bed. He stared at the freshly-painted ceiling – the crew in charge of remodelling Grimmauld Place had started in his bedroom – and contemplated how weird his life was.

The war was over, he had his own house, his own job (which he would start in a couple of weeks) and in theory, everything was going… well.

And here he was, missing the war.

Not exactly missing it, missing that single-minded purpose. Missing having something to do, something to strive towards…

Freedom was highly overrated, in his opinion. During the war, he imagined he would have had a companion at this point. He had rarely allowed himself to wonder about life after Voldemort’s death, but every time he did, he had imagined Ginny at his side.

To this day, he still wasn’t sure why they hadn’t picked up where they had left off.

 

**Four months before**

 

 

Harry woke up with a start. His mind was foggy, a blanket of confused memories and he wasn’t sure where he was and…

Oh. They’d won the war. The memories rushed back to him in one go, leaving him breathless.

Oh, Merlin. _Fred. Lupin. Tonks._

A wave of grief hit him like a Stunning Spell. 

But they had won. They had won, and he was in his old bed up in the Gryffindor Tower and…

He needed to find Ron and Hermione. They had so much to do. They needed to round up the Death Eaters and start thinking about the future, and…

And he found himself unable to move. Staring at the canopy with bleary eyes, he was overwhelmed with how much he wanted to get up and Disapparate to a rock in the middle of the sea and never come back.

Someone knocked at the door and he flinched, torn away from his reverie.

“Come in,” he answered. Probably Ron or Hermione, or Kreacher with breakfast. Instead, he was surprised to see Ginny making her entrance. “Hey,” he greeted softly. She smiled sadly at him.

Ginny looked just as lost and grief-stricken as he probably did. She had circles under her eyes, her hair messily tied in a bun. She had a blanket draped on her shoulders, wearing it like a piece of armour. “Hey,” she greeted back, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Glad to see you awake. You were out for almost twenty-four hours. It’s morning again.”

And so it was, Harry noticed, looking out of the window. The pale morning sun filtered through the windows, giving his old room an eerie appearance.

“How’s…”

“Don’t worry about that,” she cut him off. “You deserve some rest. Let other people do the grunt work for once.”

He considered rebelling for a moment. “Okay,” he finally conceded.

“I’m here because I don’t think I can move on until we’ve… talked. About us.”

“Oh,” Harry said, unable to look her in the eyes. “Are you sure this is the right moment?”

She shrugged. “It probably isn’t. I just don’t think it would be a good thing for either of us to move forward with one more question left unanswered. It’s going to be hard enough as it is, with so much uncertainty. I just want to make at least one thing certain.”

“Right. Err…” He wasn’t sure what to say. Maybe he was picking up the wrong signals, but from her tone and her demeanour, he was pretty sure she was here to break up with him. But they weren’t together.

“I can’t do this right now, Harry.” She confirmed his suspicions. “I know it probably seems mean, and I don’t know what you think about it, but…”

“I agree,” he interrupted her. “It’s just…”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she cut him off. They were talking over each other, desperate in their attempt to reassure, to clarify. “I will always care for you. But it’s too much. I can’t jump into this without being a hundred percent sure. And I’m not, Harry. I feel so guilty, but I’m not.”

“Don’t,” Harry smiled at her. “I understand. I swear, I do. This thing between us… it can’t be an experiment. It would destroy us both if it went badly. And your family…”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, happy that Harry got it. “We can’t jump into it and just… see how it goes. It’s too big.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Harry confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be together.”

“Oh, Harry.” All of a sudden, she looked so sad. Harry could only imagine how hard this was for her. To even think about this, when she must have been so consumed by grief… Ginny truly was the strongest person he knew. Somehow, that thought hurt him more. But she looked so lost, he couldn’t let it show, that the feeling was mutual, that he was just as lost, as sad, as confused. “I feel terrible. I’ve wanted this for so long, and now I’m telling you that…”

“No, don’t, Ginny.” He sat on the bed and reached out to hug her tightly. “Trust me, we’re on the same page. We don’t know how to do this and it’s too important to mess up.”

“Thank, you Harry.” She rose from the bed and ran her hand through his hair. He closed his eyes.

 _Are you sure you want to give this up?_ He asked himself. But looking at her, the curve of her shoulders, the grief in her eyes, he had no doubt. They couldn’t get together just to be each other’s crutch. It wouldn’t be right.

“I’ll tell Kreacher to bring you some breakfast. And then… whenever you’re ready, we’re all downstairs.”

Harry nodded. He was never going to be ready to face the world, but then again, that had never stopped him before.

 

 

**Now**

 

 

Harry threw on a button-down and his best pair of slacks. The formal clothes Hermione had made him buy still seemed out of place on him, used as he was to jeans and a ratty jumper.

He had waited for three months. Waited for the moment in which he’d finally realise this was all a huge mistake, that he wanted Ginny, he loved her, he needed her to be with him. After all, they had left it open-ended. In Harry’s mind, that conversation had the distinct connotation of a _not now_ rather than _just no_.

That moment never came. Every time he saw her, all he could think of was how glad he’d be if they could just be friends again. And he didn’t understand why.

He entered the Ministry with an hour and a half to spare. Waking up at the crack of dawn was an old habit he still hadn’t managed to shake off. He thought about going to a café, killing some time with a newspaper, or maybe meeting with some of the Aurors to talk a bit more about the job. He barely knew anything about it. Without even realising what he was doing, he found himself in the lifts. He frowned at his own action. Indulging this sudden impulse sounded like a bad idea. He could almost hear Hermione’s voice in his head telling him to _“leave it alone, Harry, for Merlin’s sake”_. And yet, here he was. Mentally, he had already committed to the plan before even taking a conscious decision.

“Detention Centre,” he said.

After going down for Merlin knew how many levels, the doors finally pinged open.

“Detention Centre,” announced the metallic voice.

The last time Harry had been anywhere near the place, the Dementors were here. Now that their cold, oppressive presence was gone, the atmosphere should have been less creepy. It wasn’t. The air felt artificial and stale, the walls disturbingly bare, and Harry’s instincts were itching for him to keep his wand at the ready. This place had seen so much suffering.

He walked towards the cells, looking around. They hadn’t even bothered to Charm in a couple of fake windows.

“Hey!”  A guard stopped him. He had reached the entrance to the high-security section. Only guards and Aurors were allowed past that point. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Harry sighed. He reluctantly rose his eyes to meet the guard’s. He hated doing this.

“Mr Potter!” the guard exclaimed. “I had no idea, I’m sorry…”

“I’d like to visit a prisoner,” Harry calmly stated.

“Well, y-you can’t,” the man stammered. “These prisoners have no visitation rights. Not even the Minister himself could go see them…”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Well…” The guard looked almost panicked. Everyone was loath to refuse Harry any favours these days, and Harry knew. He just wished he didn’t have to resort to this. Had he thought about this earlier, he would have brought his Invisibility Cloak. Hermione would disapprove so _thoroughly_. “I’m sure the Minister wouldn’t want to put me in that position, but Mr Potter, I…”

“It will only take five minutes,” Harry interrupted him. He smiled. “Please. It doesn’t have to be official. No one will ever know.”

The guard gulped. “Which prisoner?”

“Draco Malfoy. His sentence is in less than three hours. I just need to ask him a personal question, nothing that will interfere with his trial.”

Draco Malfoy was the least dangerous of all the prisoners in this area and the man knew. Harry knew he had won even before the guard nodded, looking down.

“Cell 0-98,” he told him, giving him a piece of parchment with a spell written on it. “Mr Potter… I don’t need to tell you that if this got out, I would lose my job.”

“It’s not going to happen, I swear,” Harry promised him. He wouldn’t let that happen.

Draco’s cell was relatively close to the entrance, in a dark, damp corridor of black bricks. The cell’s number was written in mouldy letters in what looked like a wall. Harry frowned. Were they walled in? Did they have no source of natural air?

He tapped his wand against the wall: “ _Vitraperio_ ,” he murmured, reading from the piece of parchment. He blinked at the sudden appearance of a glass window. Despite appearances, it was probably strong enough to withstand a Bombarda.

He looked inside. Draco was sleeping.

The cell was nothing more than a cube with a floor, a ceiling, four walls and a thin mattress.

Harry had a thousand questions in his mind: how did they go to the bathroom? Was this really all they could see and have access to during their imprisonment? How could Kingsley allow this?

In truth, he had come here to talk to Draco. Ask him what he wanted to do. If he would rather go to Azkaban and wait out the worst of the media circus or if he would prefer to go to whatever home he had left, try and rebuild his life immediately after the whole ordeal.

But seeing him sleeping on the dirty mattress on the floor, Harry could not bear to wake him up. And anyway, he had made his decision. He turned the window back into a wall and walked out of there.

 

***

 

_The Boy Who Lived and the Death Eater: Young Malfoy Hot for the Hero_

 

_In a shocking twist of events not even the most talented of prophets could have foreseen, young Draco Malfoy (17, in the photograph below) has publicly declared his love for none other than the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, Harry Potter. During his trial, yesterday August 4 th, it has emerged that the young Malfoy heir had written a series of letters addressed to Harry Potter. The letters, recovered from the Ministry’s Aurors and protected by a Burning Curse, revealed the details of scandalous proportions: Draco Malfoy has and always had feelings for Harry Potter._

_The two have been known to have an antagonistic, hostile relationship during their years at Hogwarts. It remains unclear whether the content of the letters is truthful: amongst the various declarations of love for the Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Malfoy heir also wrote extensively about his lack of loyalty towards He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and his desire to switch sides. A desire which remained unfulfilled, according to the letters, due to the fact that He-Must-Not-Be-Named had threatened his parents (Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, 44 and 42, left photograph) with torture and death. A source from inside the Ministry has decidedly declared the letters to be “false, and an excuse to get away with it, as per usual with the Malfoys”. Another source, however, has claimed to possess knowledge that corroborates the young Malfoy’s version of the events: “It was obvious from the way Potter was looking at him that Malfoy wasn’t lying. There’s something fishy going on between the two of them and I’ve always thought so”._

_What is evident is that the discovery of the letters forced the Minister, the Committee and the audience to entirely re-evaluate a situation which, before, seemed to be inexorably directed towards a hard sentence and a conviction. So much so that the Minister himself, Kingsley Theseus Shacklebolt, has decided to postpone the sentence to the following day so that there was time to analyse the letters._

_Draco Malfoy, accused of attempted murder, torture and many other crimes, will receive his sentence today, August 5 th, at 11 AM._

 

 

“It’s as fair as it was going to get,” Harry sighed, giving the Prophet back to Hermione. He kept throwing nervous glances at the doors. Malfoy would be brought in any minute now. It was hard to hear anything else other than the ruckus happening behind the doors of the gallery entrance. According to Ron and Hermione, half the Ministry and about a tenth of the wizarding population were trying to attend Draco’s trial after reading the article, amassing in the halls nearby. Everyone wanted to know how their new favourite soap opera would end, Harry thought spitefully.

“Either they didn’t have the time to make it into a much more scandalous scoop or the journalist is actually a decent person,” Hermione agreed. “I think at the Prophet they still feel like they owe you. If you think about it, they’ve been surprisingly lenient in the past months.”

“Well, what else could they do? There’d be a riot if they attacked Harry right now,” Ron added.

“Oh, trust me, after Rita I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“You and Rita, I know she’s bloody awful, but…”

“Quiet,” Harry begged them. The doors finally creaked open. Once again, Harry had to watch as they dragged a barely-alive Draco to the seat in the middle of the room. He was going to get a reaction out of him today if it was the last thing he ever did.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Kingsley called. “Please, stand.”

Draco did not move. Harry was starting to get seriously worried now. Was he sick? Then, after a few seconds of stunned silence, Draco finally rose to his feet, just as Kingsley was about to repeat his request. He looked as reluctant and defeated as a human being could be.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Mr Malfoy. First, let me apologise. I apologise for the circumstances you’ve been detained in the past 86 days. I must confess I was not aware of how rough and inhumane the conditions were in our Detention Centre. Those cells were not meant for long detention periods, but rather for temporarily holding people who were about to face trial. When we decided to remove the Dementors from Azkaban, our entire prison circuit had to be rethought. Thus, I had no choice but to use the cells of the Detention Centre, but I should have ensured that they were viable for convictions longer than a few days. This was my mistake, I acknowledge it, and I apologise for it.”

The crowd was stunned. After Fudge and Scrimgeour, Harry expected they weren’t used to hearing a Minister of Magic apologise. Personally, he was proud of Kingsley. And so was Hermione, if her frantic nodding was anything to go by. Ah, Hermione and her passion for civil rights.

“All the prisoners are being transferred to Azkaban right now, where they’ll have access to natural air and light, they won’t be in complete isolation and they’ll have visitation rights. I have increased the number of guards from one hundred to one hundred and fifty, and I’ve sent our best Aurors to fortify the numerous security spells that, due to the dismissal of the Dementors, are of paramount importance to keep Azkaban secure.”

 _Finally_ , Harry thought. Draco had finally reacted. He had looked at Kingsley, disbelief clearly written all over his face. Harry understood his incredulity: after being detained in a shoebox for the best part of three months, the last thing anyone would expect was to receive an apology. He also understood why this was important to Draco: while he lay in that miserable hole, alone, he must have had one constant thought in his mind. That his parents were going through the exact same hell.

 _Not anymore_ , Harry thought. He felt that maybe this had been his biggest contribution to the post-war wizarding world. It would have been so easy to give in to societal pressure and treat the Death Eaters with the same amount of cruelty and disregard of life they had shown everyone during Voldemort’s era. Harry believed it was the duty of the Wizarding Community not to stoop down to their level. They were not monsters.

“As for your sentence.” Kingsley sighed and picked the piece of parchment in front of him. The sentence was already written down in fancy terms and reasonable explanations, but as Kingsley spoke, Harry realised he was going off script. “Much has been said about your role during the war, Mr Malfoy. People have spoken for you, against you… we have evidence that both incriminate you and justify your actions. In the end, I had to think outside the box. I didn’t think about your crimes. I didn’t think about those letters. I just looked at you, and all I could see was a terrified young man.” Kingsley took a deep breath, ignoring with enviable nonchalance the unhappy murmurs going around the gallery. “I’ve seen a lot of criminals in my life, Mr Malfoy. I think I can safely say that my entire career as an Auror rested on my ability to distinguish between the truly vile and the people who sometimes were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I look at you, and I don’t see a criminal: it’s as simple as that.”

The Aurors silenced the crowd before they could start yelling. Kingsley finally started to read from the parchment.

“In light of the evidence presented to this court, having taken into account the testimony of the witnesses, I, Kingsley Theseus Shacklebolt, Interim Minister of Magic, do sentence you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to six months of probation under the effects of the Tracking Charm. All goods and possessions under your name are now no longer under Ministry confiscation. See the Wand Office to get your wand back.”

For a second, nobody moved. The audience sat there, frozen, their mouths hanging open. Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at Malfoy, to see his reaction, but, predictably, the only obvious emotion on Draco’s face was shock. The Aurors stood by, ready to intervene if the crowd got too wild.

“You’re free to go, Mr Malfoy,” Kingsley reiterated in a kind tone.

And then, just screams and chaos.

 

 

***  
  


 

Harry, Hermione and Ron made their way out of the chamber quickly. The photographers outside immediately snapped thousands of shots of them, whilst Ron expertly made sure his middle fingers were visible in each of them – an old trick they had mastered long ago. No reputable paper would buy those photographs.

“Leave us alone,” Hermione firmly demanded. “Or you’ll be the next on trial. For harassment.”

The journalists quickly scattered away. Hermione had a bit of a reputation among them.

The rest of the Ministry staff warily looked at them, clearly dying to approach, but knowing they would receive a similar treatment.

“Let’s just go,” Ron grumbled, throwing around menacing looks to make it clear to everyone they weren’t in the mood to satisfy their curiosity.

Harry was planning on going home and just think for the rest of the day. He could skip the next trial, after all. The only one he needed to be present at was Narcissa’s, and that was in two or three days. They turned corner after corner, used to ignoring everyone’s stares, finally reaching the lifts.

“Atrium,” Hermione announced out loud. The lift obediently pinged and closed its doors. Fortunately, they had found an empty one, since being trapped together in a moving box was nothing short of an invitation to badger them with unwelcomed questions. Harry couldn’t wait to get to the Floo fireplaces.

“Want to go to a pub? I know it’s not even noon yet, but…”

“We’re not day drinking, Ron, for Merlin’s sake…”

“I’m just saying! He might want to!”

Harry tuned them out, used to doing so after such a long time. Their bickering was nothing new. Just as he contemplated whether he could Disapparate without them noticing the moment they were out of the Ministry, the lift interrupted them.

“Atrium,” the cold voice announced. Harry, Ron and Hermione got out, and in the bustle of Ministry employees and visitors, Harry saw something out of the corner of his eyes.

Ah. Apparently, Malfoy had taken back his wand. The Aurors were escorting him to the exit, fending off the mob that had gathered around Draco. The Aurors had already silenced the crowd, but they were still following the group, angrily mouthing insults.

Draco looked slightly more alive, his eyes alert and darting from one point to another in rapid succession. He was also terrified, Harry couldn’t help but notice. Hermione and Ron, now silent, followed his gaze and sighed.

“He doesn’t look very well, does he?”

“Let’s just let him leave and follow after. We don’t want that mob to turn on us,” Ron suggested. For a second, Harry had to bite back an insult at his best friend. _Sure, that bloke looks like he’s going through absolute hell, but let’s avoid the mob. That’s what matters._ Hermione seemed to agree with him, going by the unimpressed look she gave her boyfriend.

“I want to talk to him,” she said in a determined tone. “I’ll pop out right after him. If you two don’t want to, you can wait here.”

“Hermione, what the hell?” Ron yelled just as Malfoy entered the fireplace and whirled away in a spiral of grey and green. Harry didn’t stop to think about it. He waited for Hermione to go, and then ignored the myriads of people – who had now spotted him – and tossed a fistful of Floo Powder into the burning embers.

A second later, fighting back the usual nausea, he spotted Malfoy and Hermione on a corner near the exit of the Ministry. Apparently, Hermione had found Draco near the Apparating point. Now that he had his wand back, it made sense. He walked over, Ron following shortly after.

“I’m just asking if you’re okay, Draco,” Hermione was explaining to him in a soothing tone. “You don’t seem like it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Draco spat, though there was no real venom in his voice. Merlin knew they were familiar with the difference. “I’m fine.”

“Hey!” Ron intervened with a snarl. “We helped you in there, mate. The least you could do is not be a giant git for once in your miserable…”

“Do you have a place to go?” Harry interrupted him. He stared directly at Draco, who returned the gaze. His face was unreadable, but Harry could see the tell-tale stiffening of his posture.

“No,” he answered after a bit. Hermione and Ron watched the exchange; Ron was clearly weirded out by the interaction, while Hermione seemed pleased enough to have Harry take over.

“Do you have any money?”

“No.”

“Do you have anything other than your wand and the robes you’re wearing?”

“My personal belongings were at the Manor. The Manor is under sequestration. My vault at Gringotts is frozen, because it’s also under my father’s name. I don’t have anything else.”

Harry nodded. Turning to look at his friends, he took a moment to think this through. They both still lived with their parents, having decided to move in together after Hermione’s last year at Hogwarts. Hermione couldn’t have taken Draco in for a couple of days even if she wanted to: her parents were still recovering from the aftershocks of having a massive memory spell undone. They couldn’t have a former Death Eater and known Muggle hater in their home, acquitted or not. It would have been too hard to explain. Ron wasn’t even an option.

“Is there anyone you want us to contact? Someone who could help you?”

Draco didn’t seem to like the reminder that, other than his parents, he was pretty much alone in the world. He pursed his lips and looked down, shaking his head once in a sharp motion. All his former friends would murder him in a heartbeat, especially after the content of the letters had been made public. The only family he had who wasn’t imprisoned or dead was Andromeda, and as forgiving and loving a woman she was, Harry knew she wouldn’t welcome Draco into her home while she had her hands full with an infant. That left him no choice.

“You’re staying with me.”

“What?! Harry, think of…”

“Harry, I don’t believe that this is a good…”

“What the fuck! It’s _Malfoy_!”

Harry opted to ignore them again. He only needed Malfoy’s approval. He was well aware of how ridiculous this all was, playing host to the boy who not only was his childhood nemesis, but also a former Death Eater and who, oh, yeah… had feelings for him. Embarrassing, uncomfortable feelings Harry didn’t know how to deal with.

Draco tried to speak over Hermione and Ron, but his voice was broken and weak after so many weeks of absolute silence. Harry stared at them until they finally shut up.

“I can’t,” Draco said eventually. “It’s nice of you to offer. I mean it,” he added, warily eyeing the murderous look on Ron’s face. “But I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice. I’m offering a solution. Your mother’s trial should be in a few days, and since I plan on testifying in her favour, she’ll probably get acquitted, too, and some of her assets will be given back. You can leave then, be with her. But for now… I’m the only option you have. I suggest you take it.”

“This can’t be happening,” Ron whispered incredulously as Malfoy reluctantly nodded, accepting Harry’s offer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Second chapter.  
> Let me start by saying this: I never ever would have expected such a positive reaction to my first chapter. Honestly, I’m thinking about printing out the comments and cuddling them at night. There are just no words to express my happiness. Of course, having anxiety issues means that now I’m afraid the other chapters won’t live up to the hype hahah  
> In all seriousness, thanks for Beta Reading this chapter to Sian, Only_1_life and, of course, the amazing [Winterwolke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke). By the way, people, she’s an awesome Beta and she’s looking for new challenges!  
> I know I’m ending this chapter with another cliffhanger, and I’m sorry, but it’s just how I write, I end chapters with a bit of suspense, so please bear with me! Also, a reminder that the story is entirely written out, so for those of you who have been wondering, yes, of course I’ll post the whole thing. Just need to get it through the Betas before ^^  
> This chapter is titled “Exculpatory” for obvious reasons, I can’t tell you the title of the next one because it’s a spoiler, but I can tell you that the last chapter’s title is “Stupid things I do”, and kudos to anyone who can tell what song that’s from!  
> As usual, thank you for reading, and for all your comments and kudos in the last chapter <3 and if you’re ever in doubt, I prefer comments, man, I love comments \o/  
> If you want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zuzallove) and here's my [fandom Facebook!](https://www.facebook.com/zuzallove)


	3. Letters to Draco

**Chapter 3: Letters to Draco**

 

 

The voice in Harry’s head hadn’t shut up for a single moment. The voice that kept telling him that this was a huge mistake, screaming it at an increasing volume as Draco entered Grimmauld Place, as Harry gave him towels and a change of clothes for a shower, as he asked him if he had any preferences for dinner. _You’re an idiot,_ it told him as he tried to calm down Kreacher, over-enthusiastic at the idea of hosting a Black family member. _The boy has feelings for you. How do you think this looks to him?_ it viciously asked as Harry contemplated which of the bedrooms was in better shape, and finally opting for the sofa in the recently renovated living room. _If this gets out, the press will never shut up about it_ , the voice insisted as he laid down a duvet and a pillow. Harry had never been good at Occlumency, and he wasn’t able to shut down the voice, as annoying as it was. It almost felt as if Voldemort was in his head again.

_Why are you really doing this?_

Harry grabbed a fistful of his hair and sat down on the sofa, repressing the urge to scream. _There’s nothing I can do now_ , he reminded himself. _It’s done. It’s happening. Deal with it._

Draco came down from upstairs wearing Harry’s robes. They were a bit short on him.

“I…” he started. Harry patiently waited for him to finish. “I need you to activate the Tracking Charm. It needs to be activated by someone other than me.” Draco took a deep breath. “I also need you to send a note to the Ministry the moment I leave. Testifying my abrupt change of location is not suspicious, and that we agreed on it beforehand.”

Harry nodded. He could do that. He took out his wand and performed the activation spell non-verbally. A black thread came out of the tip, twisting around Draco’s bare ankle before tightening like a bracelet and then disappearing into his skin. Draco looked at it with a strangely void expression.

“I am in no position to ask for any favours,” he whispered after a second.

_Ah_ , Harry thought, _here we go. The talk._

“It’s okay,” he muttered back.

“It really isn’t.”

Harry sighed and abruptly stood up, pacing his living room. He tried to ignore Draco’s flinch.

“I’m not good at this,” he started, looking everywhere but in his direction. “I’m… I’m kind of an idiot when it comes to this stuff.” Draco said nothing, staring at him like he expected Harry to start shouting at him any second. To be sent away, insulted. Harry desperately wanted to reassure him, but as aforementioned, he sucked at this. “Hermione wrote the statement I read at your trial, because I can never find the right words for anything. But I meant it. I read it for the same reason you’re here right now. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think you should have gone to Azkaban.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“That I don’t think you…?”

“That you don’t hate me.”

Harry nodded. He understood how most people in his position might have succumbed to that temptation. It would have been as easy as breathing.

“I don’t think I have it in me. Hate, I mean. I think… I think after the war, it’s almost impossible for me to hold on to bad feelings for a long time. I try to, sometimes, but they just… slip away. There’s no room for them.”

Draco frowned. “So, it’s as easy as that?”

“No,” Harry tried to explain, frustration bubbling up in his throat. Why could he never explain himself properly around Draco? Why couldn’t he just _make him understand_? “And yes. I don’t hate you, is my point.”

“I told you I had feelings for you in front of an entire courtroom.”

Ah. Bombs away. Apparently, they were talking about this.

“It wasn’t really your choice…”

“Don’t deflect.”

The sharp tone made Harry’s head turn. Part of him wanted to get angry, to yell at Draco that it wasn’t okay to use that tone with him after all the favours he had done for him today. But to be fair, he really wasn’t explaining himself as he should have.

“This situation is fucked up,” Harry summarised. “It’s one of the most fucked up situations I’ve ever been in and that should tell you something.”

“You want something. From me.” Harry stopped in his tracks to look at him, frowning. Draco was staring at him, stiff and composed, his head bowed down, but his eyes… His eyes were dark, and entirely focused on Harry.

“No, you see? That is exactly why I was afraid of this conversation. I knew you’d jump at some pretty horrible conclusions and then I would get mad, and…”

“Then explain!” Draco shouted. A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitched. Draco really wasn’t in the position to act all high and mighty. He shouldn’t have had the upper hand in this conversation, but then again, Harry sucked at confrontation.

_Why does everything with Draco Malfoy always has to be a fight?_

On a distant, abstract level, he understood that Draco was like an animal fresh out of a cage in that moment. Trust was the furthest thing he could ever expect from him right now, but Harry’s lack of communication skills was turning what should have been a simple explanation into yet another battle, and Harry was so _tired_. He would have loved nothing better than to open up his brain and let Draco peer inside. See that he had nothing to fear. Not from Harry, at least.

“I understand what you must be thinking right now. I do,” he insisted. “I can only tell you this. I don’t want anything from you. I’m not using this as a bargaining chip. I have no ulterior motive.”

Draco’s breathing quickened, but he remained silent, letting Harry stumble his way into an explanation.

“I don’t care about what you said in those letters. I’ve been trying to put it out of my mind.”

_And failing_ , the voice in his head taunted him.

“I reckon… you needed help, and I was there. This is as far as my underdeveloped emotional and confrontational skills go, I’m afraid,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I wish I could make it easier to understand. Would it help if I told you that I really believe you deserve a second chance?”

Draco’s eyes were still full of suspicion, but Harry knew a lost battle when he saw one. He decided to regroup and try again in the morning.

“Listen, I’m going to bed,” he announced, suddenly feeling exhausted. “We can talk some more in the morning if you want. Just… please, don’t do anything stupid. You’re safe here.” Draco nodded, and then sat on the sofa with a carefully guarded expression.

“If you’re hungry or you need anything just call for Kreacher. He makes a mean onion soup. Be aware, though, he’s a big fan of the Black Family and he might be a little bit too excited at the idea of catering for a relative. He’s harmless,” he stupidly added, feeling as if Draco’s answering smile was more out of pity than anything else.

He rushed up the stairs before he could say something even more mortifying. It was only 2PM, but he didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day, letting Kreacher bring him some sandwiches in the evening and then going to bed early. The strangeness that came with the realisation that he and Draco Malfoy were currently under the same roof never faded.

 

***  
  


Harry woke up with a start. He had dreamt about Malfoy, he was sure.

He couldn’t quite remember what… oh.

Oh, yeah. Malfoy was downstairs. Harry rapidly went through the reasons why he had invited Malfoy to stay at his place until his mother’s trial, hoping to find a flaw in his thinking. Frustratingly enough, no. He stood by his choice. Even though he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t die of awkwardness before the end of this little ordeal he had oh so cleverly decided to put himself through.

_You moron._

He sighed and went to the bathroom, starting to get ready for the day. He cast a quick Tempus and discovered it was only 6:30AM.

As he got dressed, he realised that he couldn’t bloody face Draco so early in the morning. He would say something stupid. He couldn’t even understand why it mattered so much that he did not aggravate the already tense situation further, but he found that he couldn’t open his bedroom door.

Then he had a very cowardly idea. “Kreacher!” he called in a whisper. The Elf popped up in his room a second later. These days, his ear hairs looked fluffier and cleaner than ever.

“Master Harry!” Kreacher bowed to him, his long, pointy nose touching the floor. “Did you call for Kreacher?”

Harry scratched his stubble. He hated having a servant. After the war, the thought of having to find another house had made his skin crawl, so he had opted for Grimmauld Place. Construction crews had been in high demand, with so many places to rebuild, but he had managed to find one and had thrown money at the problem. Luna had helped with the designing part. The only problem with the house had been Kreacher: the mere suggestion of leaving to find another master or being freed sent him into fits of hysterics, and so Harry had had no choice but to keep him. Not that he didn’t have his uses, but… Hermione still threw him dirty looks whenever she saw Kreacher bowing and scraping.

“Yes, yes,” he said, motioning for him to get up. “Is Draco up?” he asked.

Kreacher’s round, glassy eyes immediately sparkled.

“Master Draco woke up thirty minutes ago,” the Elf proclaimed as if nothing better could have happened. “He asked for eggs. And a cup of tea!”

“He’s not your master,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. “And what’s so great about asking for… never mind. Did he say anything?”

Kreacher shook his head, clearly disappointed. “Master Draco seems sad, very sad,” he explained. “He says nothing. Good thing Kreacher’s here now. He needs him.”

“No, that’s not what he needs,” Harry sighed, finally opening the door and getting ready to go downstairs. “Listen, Kreacher, you have to stop with this blood-purity stuff. I know it was important for the Blacks, and you’re still loyal to them, but these days it could get you into trouble. Could you just… I don’t know, stop adoring Malfoy? Please?”

Kreacher blinked at him. “Draco Malfoy is a very good boy,” he said slowly, as if he wanted to make sure Harry understood the importance of that point. “From a very ancient family.”

“Kreacher, listen to me for once!”

“Master Draco asked for eggs.”

Were eggs part of some sort of Pureblood tradition Harry didn’t know about? He made a mental note to ask Ron.

“Ah, well, if he asked for eggs, then pardon my mistake…”

Kreacher looked unnervingly satisfied by his answer. Not big on sarcasm, the old boy.

“Would Master Harry enjoy eggs this morning, too?”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “And could you please make me some coffee? And bacon?”

Without answering, Kreacher Disapparated. Harry was pretty sure he wasn’t getting any bacon today.

He turned the corner to the kitchen, not quite sure what to expect there. Apparently, Kreacher had found some more clothes for Draco, who sat at the table sipping his tea and staring into nothingness.

“Good morning,” Harry greeted him, clearing his throat, embarrassment clear in his posture.

Draco whispered it back, but kept staring at the wall. Harry sat at the opposite side, trying desperately to go about his morning with as little distress as possible. He had two letters, one from Ron and one from Hermione, both just wanting to make sure he was still alive, and Draco hadn’t run away. He scribbled back quick answers and then sent his new owl, Screech, out to deliver them. He would see them in a few hours, anyway. Then he opened the Prophet and promptly put it down again, hoping Draco hadn’t seen the headlines. It really wasn’t a great way to start the day. _Draco Malfoy is Out: Former Death Eater Gets Away With It & Reveals His Feelings for Harry Potter_.

He took a second look at Draco. How strange was this? Eating breakfast at his kitchen table with Draco Malfoy as if they were friends?

He was wearing an oversized woolly jumper, black trousers and oxfords. Harry had no idea where the clothes had come from, but they looked well-worn, and comfortable. He had no idea where they came from, but they definitely weren’t his. He hoped Kreacher hadn’t done anything illegal.

Said House Elf was currently frying eggs in a pan, stopping in his work occasionally to cast adoring looks towards Draco. Draco seemed out of it; the shadows under his eyes had gotten considerably less dark, and his hair appeared soft and luscious, but his vacant expression pointed to a shock and trauma he still hadn’t properly processed. The kind of expression Harry had seen on people’s faces immediately after the battle, he realised.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked eventually, grimacing at his own stupid question. Draco blinked and turned to look at him.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied with a wary look.

“You don’t have to… Draco, please, stop expecting me to throw you out.” So much for trying to keep the conversation casual.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Well, sure.”

“Are you straight?”

Maybe Kreacher could knock him out with the pan; maybe he could Disapparate without answering the question, Dumbledore-style. Maybe he could fake a heart attack.

“Wh-Why are you asking?” he choked out, as Kreacher put down his plate of eggs in front of him. He couldn’t have been less interested in food at that moment.

“Because you don’t look disgusted,” Draco explained, his eyes clearly searching Harry’s face. “I get it, you have a saviour complex. No, don’t deny it,” he quickly added, seeing Harry opening his mouth. “You do. So, I understand how you would be able to put aside all our past… history, let’s say, and even the fact that, let’s face it, I might have been released, but my arm will never be clean again.” He lowered his head.

Harry could have taken that opportunity to interject, but oddly enough, he found himself as silent as a tomb. “But any straight bloke would have been appalled at finding out… what you found out. That, if nothing else, should have given you a reason to run as far away from me as possible and never look back.” He paused again, chewing his bottom lip. Harry could see that just talking about this was taking a lot out of him. “Unless you’re not disgusted and shocked. Which doesn’t mean you’re interested, of course, just that maybe you don’t find the prospect of another man being interested in you that revolting.”

Harry considered this for a second. He wasn’t straight, he had known for years. Could he deny it? Could he take the easy way off and just say he was straight, but it wasn’t a big deal for him?

“I’m not straight.” His mouth had made the decision before his brain could even process the options.

“Okay.” For some reason, Draco seemed to instantly relax after that. As if the picture finally made sense. From a Slytherin point of view, Harry mused, every time someone did anything it must be for a specific reason. In truth, Harry had no idea what his reasons for taking Malfoy into his home had been. Maybe he was just a stupid Gryffindor who did things for no reason at all: his past choices certainly reflected that. Or maybe it had been pity, just pity, seeing a boy his own age thrown out on the kerb without a single Knut to his  name and nowhere to go. Maybe he was just a sucker for underdogs, and Draco had gone from riches to rags in such a short span of time that the mere sight of him had made something short-circuit in Harry’s brain.

“You know, that doesn’t mean…”

“I know.”

Harry rose his eyebrows. Part of him wanted to stay and talk about it some more, but how would that help either of them? Apart from Kreacher, who was still magically cooking what was probably going to be their lunch or dinner, the kitchen was enveloped in a tense, awkward atmosphere. Interrupted every now and then by the Elf’s gleeful humming and sighs of joy.

“I’m going to the Ministry,” Harry announced, trying to catch Draco’s eyes again. The boy had gone back to sipping his tea and staring at the wall _. You don’t get to shut down on me again_ , he wanted to scream at him. After the openness of their conversation, he couldn’t bear it.

“Okay,” was the only answer he received.

_Sod it_ , Harry thought, angrily stomping down the stairs. _Sod it all._

 

***

 

The two days went by unexpectedly fast, considering. Being out most of the day to attend the other trials, Harry had barely seen Draco. The first day he had come home at 7PM, and they had shared a silent, awkward meal together, then Harry had loudly proclaimed that he was tired and heading upstairs to have an early night. The second day Draco had been asleep by the time he had come home. And the morning of the third day was Narcissa’s trial.

As far as trials went, hers was pretty straightforward. There was no hard evidence against Narcissa, other than her tacit endorsement of her husband’s behaviour and general views, and after Harry’s statement it had become apparent that a conviction was out of question. Kingsley released her and, much as they had hoped, gave her back all the assets under her name, which included _a lot_. Even the Manor. Harry had started to think that the Malfoys had done it on purpose, clever lot they were. It would never have even occurred to Harry to have most of their possessions registered in Narcissa’s name during the war, but then again, he was no Slytherin.

After the trial, Harry escorted Draco back to Grimmauld Place. His mother was waiting for him at the Ministry. It took Draco only 15 minutes to gather what little belongings he had accumulated – Kreacher already having admitted to taking the clothes from the Manor, _illegally_ – and then all they had to do was… well. Harry had no idea how to see him out.

“Err…” he started, as they stood on the threshold. Draco looked a bit better, especially now that he knew his mother was free, but the situation was still extremely tense, and he had a lot of weight to gain back. In a moment of startling lucidity, Harry realised Draco would never be the same he had been at Hogwarts. The boy inside him had died. Who knew who would come out, eventually.

“I won’t forget this,” Draco stated. He seemed to be having trouble making eye-contact. “I mean it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry replied lamely. He wished he were like Hermione, always knowing what to say, or even like Ron, adorably bumbling through total emotional ineptitude in a manner that made people instantly like him, trust him. He managed neither. He just looked like an arsehole.

From their hesitation it was clear both of them had more to say, but as the seconds turned into a full minute of silence, Harry couldn’t delay the inevitable any further.

“I hope you get better,” he smiled at him. “Maybe we’ll see each other soon.”

Draco rose an eyebrow with an air of polite scepticism. Harry saw a little of the old Draco in that move.

“Maybe,” Draco conceded. “I… wish you well.”

“Back at you.”

Harry had already warned the Ministry about Draco’s relocation and they had agreed to the new coordinates. There was literally nothing more for them to say.

Draco turned on the spot and with a crack, Harry was left with a huge pile of unresolved business and the overwhelming sensation that this, whatever it was, was far from being over.

Why did he feel like he’d missed an opportunity?

 

 

August 9th, 1998, delivered to Grimmauld Place 

 

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_I hope this finds you well. I am writing to express my gratitude, since there hasn’t been any occasion to do so after the trial. Having spoken to my son, I have come to realise how much we owe you. Words cannot express how grateful I am to you. Draco insisted I didn’t write this letter, going as far as suggesting that it would just “embarrass you”, but I’m a firm believer of giving credit where credit is due. You have saved us from utter ruin, Mr Potter. My family would have been all but destroyed without your intervention, and I hope I’m not out of line when I say that said intervention came entirely unexpected, at least on my part._

_This is to thank you especially for what you did to my son, to whom you owed nothing, but still came to his aid when he was in need. I understand that my family has done you ill over the years, but I sincerely hope that, in the future, we may enjoy a more civil relationship. I, for one, intend to do my part to that end._

_Wishing you the best,_

 

_Narcissa Malfoy_

 

 

August 11th, 1998, delivered to Malfoy Manor

 

_Dear Mrs Malfoy,_

_I confess I didn’t know how to reply to your letter with anything other than “You’re welcome”._

_In truth, you don’t need to thank me. I simply did what I thought was right, and I would do it again. It’s true that we have a complicated history, but in the end, I just didn’t think it would have been right to destroy you for good, not when you were instrumental in ensuring I didn’t actually die that night in the Forest._

_I know you must still be going through a tough time. Things will only get rougher from now on, I’m afraid, but eventually they’ll calm down. I hope you and your son can support each other and start healing. I could feel how much Draco needed you when he was in my company._

_I’d love to have a more civil relationship._

_Best regards,_

 

_Harry Potter_  

 

 

 

August 16th, 1998, delivered to Malfoy Manor

 

_Dear Draco,_

_…Hi. I know this is probably awkward. I hope you’re… if not well, at least better. Better than the last time I saw you._

_I’m just writing to thank you and your mother for the giant treacle tart she sent me as an answer to my letter to her. It’s my favourite, though she probably didn’t know. I think… as appreciative as I am, I just wanted to make sure you both knew that there’s no need. To keep thanking me, I mean. All I did was speak my mind, and actually, most of the statements were written by Hermione. I’m glad you’ve got your life back and I hope you get the most out of it. As I told your mum, things are going to get rough, but in the end the press always starts to chase some other story. I’ll try to do something stupid so that they leave you in peace for a while._

_Well. That was all I wanted to say._

_Except… I’m sorry for your father, Draco._

_With regards,_

 

_Harry Potter_

 

 

 

Harry read the letter for the umpteenth time, and chagrined at his own poor penmanship. It looked like moronic scribbles, and the content was not much better. Draco’s letters had been written in such elegant handwriting, all cursive and sleek lines, and Harry’s… well.

Why was he even worried about this in the first place?

And why was he writing to Malfoy now?

It had taken him hours just to compose the small note, all the while tormenting Hermione for advice. Was he supposed to send some kind of gift back? Should he have stopped replying at all?

“Kreacher, calm down!” he shouted in frustration. The Elf ignored him and kept bouncing up and down, looking at the giant tarte like he had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Master Draco is so generous and kind! And Mistress Narcissa is a lovely woman, oh, lovely indeed, so gracious, so polite…”

“Yes, yes, the sun shines out of their arses, they’re a Pureblood fanatic’s wet dream, I heard you the first time.”

Hermione had told him to be direct and honest. His letter was certainly straightforward, but then why did he feel like it was insufficient? And seriously, why was he so obsessed with this?

“Enough’s enough,” he finally declared. He called Screech with a whistle, and as the owl came into the kitchen with one of the usual horrific sounds that had given him his name, Harry gave him the small note before he could rethink his wording. Screech let out one last deafening high-pitched sound, stole a piece of bacon and flew out of the window.

Why did he care this much?

_One day_ , Harry thought. _One day I’m going to figure this out._

 

August 17th, 1998, delivered to Grimmauld Place

 

_Potter,_

_If you think I can stop my mother from sending you whatever pleases her, then you overestimate my influence over her and underestimate her obstinacy. The woman was raised as a Pureblood, Potter. Manners are ingrained in her brain like a Permanent Sticking Charm._

_If you don’t want what she sends you, just toss it. I won’t tell._

_I understand that you want to sever the connection between you and my family, so this will be my last letter to you. I’ll try and explain it to Mother, but as I said, she won’t listen to me._

_My father will be fine. 15 years is actually quite reasonable._

_With regards,_

 

_Draco Malfoy_

 

August 17th, 1998, delivered to Malfoy Manor

  
_Draco,_

_That’s not what I meant to imply. At all. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. I was just trying to say that if your mother is sending me all these gifts out of a sense of obligation, well… she doesn’t have to. Perhaps I expressed myself poorly. I told you I sucked at this. But please, stop thinking so ill of me all the time._

 

_Harry Potter_

 

August 19th, 1998, delivered to Malfoy Manor

 

_Draco?_

_Is everything alright? It’s just, you didn’t answer my last note. Just wanted to make sure everything’s okay._

_I’ve already thanked your mother for the bottle of wine, but since it’s made by your family, I’ll thank you too._

_Harry_

 

August 23rd, 1998, delivered to Grimmauld Place

 

_Potter,_

_We’re fine. You don’t need to keep checking in on us._

_Please, just… leave me be. Okay?_

_Draco_

 

 

January 6th, 1999

 

_Draco._

_Heeeeey. You see? I’ve honoured you “request”. I haven’t written to you. Well, except now. But these letters are going to be like your letters. Guess why? Huh? You’re never going to read them!_

_Okay, yeah, I’m pissed right now. It was pub night for us Aurors. Because yep. Harry Potter is finally an Auror. Big fucking whoop. Yeah, reeeally not all it’s cracked up to be. Bit of a scam, if I’m being honest. It’s the paperwork, Draco. It’s the fucking paperwork. Well, that’s not true, actually, it’s all of it. Even the exciting parts are all protocol, protocol, protocol, and they never really let me handle the situation like I would because they say I’m “reckless and a danger to myself and my colleagues”. That’s total bollocks, by the way. What they mean is, “we see a situation that’s risky and we want to save our butts”. Exactly. The great Aurors, bunch of bureaucrats and…_

_I don’t like my new job. There. I’ve said it. Anyway, Hermione says I’m obsessed with you. “It’s like sixth year all over again!” she moans and moans. Ron backs her up, the traitor. She was just home for Christmas and I swear, I almost wanted her to leave for Hogwarts again. She said I needed to “take a look inside myself” and figure out why I was so hell-bent on figuring out why you didn’t want me to write anymore._

_Hah! Joke’s on you, Draco. I’m writing to you. You’re never going to read it, but still. I win._

_I want to talk to you, you arsehole. I want to know how you’re fucking doing. The press has calmed down, but in a way, I miss reading your name in the papers. At least I knew a teeny tiny bit about how things were going for you. Is it true you led to Parkinson’s capture? Is it true you helped find all the crazy things hidden at your place?_

_Come on, you bastard, just write to me. Just write._

_You owe me._

 

January 16th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_Boy, was I pissed when I last wrote to you. At first, I was embarrassed as hell, but then I figured… I felt a tiny bit better after writing to you. Besides, turnabout’s fair play, heh?_

_I mean, this is still strange. Writing to you when you’re not going to read any of this, but it’s also kind of therapeutic, Hermione would say. I’m telling you all the things I would like to tell you and it makes me feel slightly less isolated._

_So, a quick update: I really am having trouble being an Auror. Not just because of what I wrote when I was drunk, but because… I’m having a hard time adjusting to a Ministry job, I think. The endless rules. My superiors constantly breathing down my neck. Responsibilities. Everyone expects so bloody much, and I see it in their eyes that their expectations are not met. I see it more and more after every mission I’m assigned to. I’m used to a completely different kind of fighting: I see a situation, I walk in, I make a mess, I walk out. I realise now that it’s not exactly a reasonable tactic, but it’s all I have, and I can’t seem to be able to adapt to the new situation._

_The other week we had a poison smuggler trapped. He was selling to a young man in Knockturn. We could have gotten him, but no, my partner pulled me back. Said we needed a team of at least four to minimise the risk. So, they asked me to let the young man buy the poison and let the smuggler go, catch him some other time. I didn’t even let Pierce finish. I intervened before I knew what I was doing. We got the smuggler, but Robards yelled at me for so long that I thought he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. He threatened to demote me. He promised me, another slip-up and I’m out of here. If I hadn’t been Harry Potter, I would have probably been given the sack already._

_Would that really be so terrible? I’ve got two new scars and nothing to show for it. Nothing. There’s not a single part of this job that I love. It’s just adding more nightmares to the collection._

_I hate everything right now. I hate working for the Ministry. I hate the throes of adoring people that follow me around every damn day. I hate that Hermione is away and I can’t talk to her like I’d like to. I hate that Ron and his family are enthusiastic about my job, and I can never just spit it out and say how much I’m hating it, because they’re still grieving Fred and I can’t bring myself to complain around them._

_I hate that for the life of me, I cannot figure out why I haven’t crawled back to Ginny already._

_I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since that day, that day I found out you had a crush on me, in the worst possible way…_

_I hate this._

 

 

February 12th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_The Prophet photographed you exiting Azkaban, probably after visiting your father._

_I stared at your photograph for a good twenty minutes, and then I just had to grab some parchment and write to you._

_You looked better. Healthier. More alive. Probably it’s the white-and-black, or maybe the lighting, but I thought I saw something in your eyes that remined me of when we were kids. It’s like… I don’t know. Everything I come up with to describe it sounds cheesy. It’s like you’re up to no good, but not in a bad way. It’s like a challenge. Or maybe I’m just sick and that’s what I always saw._

_We’ve always been very competitive with each other, haven’t we?_

_You also looked more like your old self in terms of appearance. Your hair looks good like that. You were right to get rid of that goo you used to use._

_I’m a moron._

_I’m a gigantic moron._

_Okay, so, listen up: yes, you’re handsome. That’s not news to me. I’ve always thought you were fit, ever since I grew old enough to notice. But I think a lot of people are fit, and I don’t stand around in my kitchen for hours thinking about it, right? So what the hell is wrong with me?_

_I think I like you._

_Yes, I’ve gone insane. Utterly._

_This cannot be happening to me. You git.  _

 

 

February 14th, 1999

 

_I’ve got it. I only think I like you because now I feel like I can’t have you! You opened this giant, massive, bottomless pit of possibilities when you said those things about me in those letters and then you completely deprived me of a chance to answer. To address them. That’s why it’s driving me insane, it’s because I never got to have the last word about it. I still don’t understand it, to be honest – how on earth could you fancy me? Did you really like me all along? Then why did you do everything you did? Why did you never tell me? Yes, that is it. It’s the questions that are driving me up the fucking wall. That makes a lot of sense, I think. Oh, Merlin, I sound so ridiculous._

_Let’s switch topic. I need to bitch about work._

_Robards wants to smother me in my sleep. I keep questioning every method, every protocol, every damn Ministry rule. I feel myself doing it, but I can’t stop. It just doesn’t make any sense to me, the way they do things. Robards says one day I might be Head of the Department and then I can change things if I don’t like them._

_Frankly, the idea terrifies me. I don’t like my job because it’s all dullness and no action, so I can’t imagine having Robards’. Sitting behind a desk all day. Coordinating operations I almost never partake in. It sounds like a nightmare. When I came here, it was implicit I was destined to lead the Department one day, in the not so distant future, since Robards only has five years to go before he can retire. Now that everyone’s seeing how bad a fit this is, I can safely assume they’ve started to reconsider._

_I miss Hogwarts so much._

_I miss you, arsehole._

_Happy Valentine’s Day._

 

 

March 5th, 1999

  
_So, Hermione is home for the holidays. She took one look at me and she could tell that something was off._

_I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret for long._

_I’m talking about the job, of course. She said she suspected I wasn’t enjoying it, but she always does that. Pretending she knew all along. She did it when we read your letters, too. Ron, on the other hand, was shocked, and disappointed, and honestly a bit of an arsehole. Going on and on about how this is my life’s calling, and it may suck now, but I just need to be patient and move up and then I’ll be as happy as a clam._

_Is it so stupid to think that maybe you’d understand better? That you could empathise with being in a situation where everyone expects so much of you and you feel like you have no other choice but to go along with it?_

_Probably yes. Your situation was entirely different. There are no lives at stake, here. Well, except mine, maybe (three more scars)._

_Maybe I’m just projecting. I’ve been thinking so much about you that I’ve been building you up in my head, always assuming “Draco would like this” and “Draco would agree with me” and all the things idiots say when they’re acting like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl with a crush._

_Fuck, Draco. I think I might like you for real. Like… proper crush and all._

_This situation really couldn’t have gotten more fucked up._

_Oh, by the way, Kreacher misses you like crazy. He’s always asking me “When is Master Draco coming to visit?” and “Won’t you write to Master Draco?” and “Why don’t I make some biscuits and a cake, so you can bring them to Master Draco and Mistress Narcissa for a visit?” He’s not coming to visit, Kreacher, I tell him all the time. Draco doesn’t want anything to do with me._

_I really ought to bring you some fucking cake and biscuits and then you’ll bloody well have to talk to me. Git._

 

 

March 7th, 1999

 

_Soooo. Drunk again, as you can probably tell._

_I got fired! The great Harry Potter, Chosen Bloody One, Hero and Saviour, got sacked in a brutal way._

_So, here’s what happened: this bloke, Benjamin Muncy, he sells cheap, malfunctioning wands to poor Muggleborns that lost theirs during the War and can’t afford a new one from Ollivander’s. These wands, we’ve been tracking them for months, they explode and shit and they can injure you, like a serious, life-threatening injury. So it was a classic surround-and-disarm manoeuvre, and we’ve been after this arsehole for so long, and we’ve finally surrounded him. And then the bastard takes the Muggleborn by the neck and points all the fake wands at his head. Says, you make another step and the lady gets blown to pieces. Everyone freezes and guess what? Oh, you’ll never guess. They all put their wands down. And this Muncy bloke demands we all give all the Galleons we have and put them in a bag, and throw the bag at his feet. Then he takes out his real wand and gets ready to Disapparate, bringing the Muggleborn lady with him as insurance. I did the only thing I could think of. I jumped at him and aimed for his wrist, then pointed the wands away from the woman and Stunned him with my own._

_And here’s what I get for that. A brand-new fucking scar on my right cheek. This one’s here to stay, I’m afraid. I’ll have to add it to the list of “facial scars that make me too bloody recognisable”, as if I needed a new one. It throbs like a son of a bitch, too. I also got a two-hours dressing down culminating in a demand to resign. I didn’t fight. I had no right to. I’m wrong for this job, and we all knew._

_But that piece of shit is behind bars, and somehow that makes me feel a tiny bit better._

_No, that’s not true._

_I’m not better. I’m… I’m a bit undone, if I have to be honest. I hate my life. I hate that I don’t know what to do now. I hated the look on Ron’s face and the disappointed, worried letter from Hermione. I just want to be left alone, why don’t they understand?_

_Oh, Merlin, this is such a mess. And ironic, too. When you wrote to me, your life was in pieces and you had a crush on me. Now I’m writing to you and it’s my life in pieces and I’m the one with a crush on you._

_I’d kill for a chance to talk to you._

_What the fuck do I do now?_

 

 

March 10th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco, I wish I could tell you things are better than they were when I wrote my last letter._

_They’re not. I’m living off my inheritance at the moment. Not that I can’t afford it, I could probably be unemployed for the rest of my life and not be in trouble, but I can’t live like this. I need to have something to do. I need to distract myself, because when I’m bored my mind goes back to the war and it strays too often to thoughts of your eyes. Your hair. Your skin._

_Merlin. I’m thinking about you all day long, now. It’s unhealthy and probably creepy, but I can’t help myself. I’ve been thinking about writing an actual letter to you, or come visit, but you were very explicit in your last note. You don’t want to see me. Are you embarrassed? Please, don’t be. We can be embarrassed together. Our inappropriate, ill-timed crush is mutual. We can share the experience._

_Hermione told me she needs to talk to me. Asked me if I could come to Hogsmeade this weekend so she can see me. I was tempted to say no, but she’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to this stuff. Better to get it over with. It’s probably a lecture on my career choices. Ah, well._

_I miss you. Kreacher sends his love._

 

**Present day**

 

Harry walked into the Three Broomsticks with the face of a man resigned to his fate. He took a look around, drowning in nostalgia for a second. Rosmerta, handing out drinks at the counter. Slughorn and Sprout sharing a Gigglewater in a corner. And everywhere, happy, cheerful students having Butterbeers and enjoying their day at Hogsmeade. Three friends in a nearby table caught his eye. They could have been him, Ron and Hermione for how much they reminded of them, except their ties indicated they all belonged to different Houses. Hermione had told him things were different now. Much more cooperative. And there was Hagrid, having a Firewhisky with a man covered head to toe in dragon leather. Harry was glad for his Invisibility Cloak, even though it had meant waiting a good fifteen minutes for someone else to open the door and then sneak in behind them. He would say hi to Hagrid later, but if he had walked in without his disguise, it would have taken hours to dodge the crowd’s attention and get to Hermione.

Speaking of Hermione, she was in one of the secluded booths, right across a wooden panel. With a smile, Harry realised she had picked the perfect spot to sit and talk without anyone else seeing him. He didn’t even have to order; a Butterbeer was awaiting him at the opposite end of the table.

“Hi,” he greeted her, sitting down. He chuckled at her startle.

“Blimey, you never get used to that,” she panted, holding a hand to her heart. “Hi.”

Harry shrugged out of the clock, ready to show himself now. Being scrutinised by Hermione always felt like being subjected to Veritaserum. She frowned, clearly disapproving whatever her analysis revealed.

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry avoided her eyes, bloody well aware that he looked like a mess. He had the distinct air of a jobless, aimless fool. His stubble had grown beyond attractiveness. His cheeks were a bit gaunt. He had the tired eyes and skin associated with sleeping trouble. He imagined that if Draco had seen him like this, he would have laughed at the idea of ever having a crush on this pathetic, unemployed loser.

“Oh, please, not you too,” he begged her, counting on her intelligence to understand what he meant without any further elaboration. Thankfully, she nodded.

“I just don’t think you understand where we’re coming from. We don’t want to scold you, Harry, we’re your friends, and we’re concerned about you…”

“And talking about it makes me feel better about myself, clearly,” Harry deadpanned. Well, at least he knew what he was getting into when he came in.

“Well, that depends.”

“Seriously, Hermione?” he rose his eyebrows, incredulous. “You really think this is the best way to help me? Giving me a lecture?”

“No, I…”

“Because let me tell you something,” he interrupted her. She looked around, alarmed by the raise in his voice. She silently cast a Muffliato. “Lectures are all I’ve heard in the past few months. And if you want to know how that turned out, you only need to look at me and…”

“Harry,” she tried to interject, but Harry was fed up. He was so tired of everyone constantly expecting shit from him. He was bloody furious.

“I’m a mess, Hermione, yes, but that doesn’t mean you get to dictate what I choose to…”

“I’m not trying to!” Hermione shouted. Despite the Muffliato, a couple of people turned towards them. They must have thought she was crazy, since they couldn’t see Harry from behind the panel. “If you would just stop screaming for a second and actually listen to me, you’d know that it’s the opposite of what I’m trying to do,” she hissed. She opened her messenger bag and took out what looked like a pamphlet, and then passed it over to him. Harry opened it gingerly, suspicious. _If this is about a support group for the unemployed, I’ll Bombarda this place to hell with no regrets_.

But it wasn’t. The title read “Interested in a Career In DADA? Owl Us at the DADA Academy”. The writing looked a little fuzzy, betraying the presence of a Traducto Charm.

“What’s this?” he asked. Hermione was still sending him dirty looks, but she could never resist granting a request for information.

“What does it look like?” she petulantly asked. At Harry’s pointed stare, she sighed and continued: “It’s a Defence Against the Dark Arts Academy in Italy. One of the best in the world. It offers courses and internships for those interested in teaching it. Now, I know you haven’t decided what to do yet, but I just wanted you to know that this is a possibility. You go there for two years, and you can teach Defence wherever you want. It’s very prestigious,” she explained, obviously trying very hard not to scare Harry away with her enthusiasm. It still came across that she was very excited about this. “McGonagall suggested it to me, but I think it’s perfect for you. This was where Hogwarts teachers used to train before the spot got cursed and they had to settle for anyone up for the job.”

Harry read the pamphlet, sceptical, but as he looked at the classes and programmes he started to feel a tingle in his chest.

“But it says here admittance is quite low,” he counterargued. “They want an essay, and then there’s an interview, and… oh, they want me to have a DADA NEWT.”

“Well, then you’d have to get one,” Hermione smiled. “As a matter of fact, I know of a very good place where you could upgrade your CV in less than a year.” 

Harry started to feel a smile coming on. “Eighth year? I don’t know, Hermione. I thought I was done with school.”

“You thought you didn’t need NEWTs when Kingsley told you you didn’t need them in order to become an Auror. But now that your career path is open again, you need all the help you can get.”

Well, that was undeniable, Harry had to admit. The Minister had broken so many rules just to get him in that Harry had yet to find the courage to face him after his resignation in disgrace. Kingsley had to be so disappointed in him.

“Assuming I agree with you,” he carefully conceded, raising a finger. Hermione was doing a very poor job of pretending she wasn’t smug at the first sign of his resolve crumbling. “I don’t know if I want to be a teacher. I mean, sure, it was fun doing it for the DA, but this is  a whole different level…”

“You were a great teacher, Harry, and you loved Defence. You were the best in our year.”

“Thanks, but I… I just don’t know, I reckon,” he sighed. He knew he had to at least consider it, and he couldn’t deny that the prospect excited him more than just a little bit, but what if he chose wrong again? What if this was just another disappointment, both in the job and in himself? Was he really ready to start over so soon?

“Harry, you don’t have to choose right now. In fact, you don’t have to choose at all, if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to know that there are options.” She leaned across the table to grab one of his hands. Harry was loath to admit it, but her friendly, open smile was already working miracles for his dreary mood. He could already feel the fog lifting, “Just take the pamphlet, read it, and then, if you decide to try it, Hogwarts will welcome you in September. No pressure, okay?”

Harry nodded, overcome by a feeling of gratefulness so intense that he had to change the topic before he embarrassed himself.

“Thank you, Hermione.”

“You’re very welcome,” she said primly, standing up and rolling a scarf around her neck. “Now, come. Hagrid’s dying to see you and you owe me a bucketful of sweets from Honeydukes.”

 

 

 

***  
  
  


March 25th, 1999

  
_Dear Draco,_

_Things are… a bit better, I think. Hermione came up with something that could be a solution, maybe. She gave me this pamphlet, and I didn’t even want to consider it at first, but then I read it all, and fuck. This could be good. This could be really good, Draco._

_I’ve talked to Ron, too. He’s starting his training in June. I don’t want to tamp down his enthusiasm, but I have to say, his expectations about the job are way too high. I’m afraid he’ll be in for a rude awakening, much like myself. But he was a lot more understanding about me quitting. Hermione must have lectured him._

_I went to the Weasleys’ for Sunday dinner the other night. Ginny is dating this new bloke, Calvin, and I was shocked at how neutral I felt about it. Mrs Weasley kept throwing me these glances, like she thought I was upset and pitied me, but all I could think about was that I hadn’t seen Ginny smile like that in years. I’m happy for her, truly. I don’t think she and I were ever meant to happen, at this point. I’m also glad that everything’s okay with the Weasleys, because they’re the closest thing to a family I have, and I hated the thought of awkwardness between us. I think now that the worst of the grief is over, we can all relax a little. At least, I hope so._

_I also went to see Andromeda. Little Teddy is growing up so fast, and she’s overcome with grief herself, but she’s doing a spectacular job. She knew you when you were little! I had no idea. She told me a lot of stories about you. Apparently, you reminded her of herself when she was a child, because you had this mischievous streak. My favourite story was when you decided to go and see Theodore Nott in the middle of the night. You were six, I think. You took your toy broom out, packed a sensible snack, wrapped your entire body in scarves, and flew out. She said your parents caught you two hours later, when you were already halfway there, and that as they screamed at you, you were calm and quietly annoyed, as if you didn’t understand what all the kerfuffle was about. You must have been a cute kid._

_Hearing this, getting any kind of information about you, is like drinking seawater. I’m parched, and suddenly there’s water, and I want to drink it so fucking much, so I drink it, because I can’t help it. It’s right in front of me. I’m unable to say no. It hurts not to drink it. But after I drink, it hurts more. I just want to drink again, and on and on it goes. I feel like I’ll never stop wanting to drink._

_I like to think that if things had gone a little differently, we might have been friends. Did you know that I Accidental Magicked my teacher’s wig blue once?_

_Please. Write to me._

 

 

April 16th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_So, I went to this place in Sardinia where this DADA Academy is. Hermione insisted so much that I eventually gave in. I tried to hold it in as much as I could, but eventually, I had to admit… the place is kind of amazing. It’s right by the sea, and there are creatures there I never even suspected could exist. They have this specialised programme, two years (one year coursework and one year internship) where you can learn, really learn, everything there is to know about defensive magic and dark creatures. The Headmaster was a very nice man, reminded me of Dumbledore a bit. They also reminded me that acceptance is very low, but I think I’m up for the challenge. And Hermione was right, you spend two years here, and then you can teach anywhere you want. There are also ministerial jobs, but I don’t think I want to work for the Ministry again. There are opportunities all over the world, things I didn’t even know could make a living. I could become a duelling instructor. I could be a dark creature specialist, work as a consultant, in the open air. I could be a teacher._

_That last one is really starting to appeal to me._

_Anyway. I’d need to go to Hogwarts again. I imagine you’re not. Why would you, after all? You don’t need to work, and the place is probably filled with bad memories for you. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t have to be there the year before the Battle. It would have killed me to see Hogwarts that low. I prefer it the way I remember it: dangerous as fuck, but a safe haven nonetheless._

_I’d have to learn Italian, though. Bollocks._

 

 

May 2nd, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_Today is… you know what today is. The Ministry contacted me about partaking in some sort of function. In an active role, too. I declined as politely as I could, because today…_

_I know people want May 2 nd to become a celebration. They need it to dissipate the last of the dark cloud that has followed everyone around in the last few years. If we manage to see it as a day of victory, maybe we’ll feel less shitty this time of the year._

_It’s never going to work for me. Today is the day I see all the faces of the people I couldn’t save. I’ve been wallowing in grief since I woke up. And amongst those faces, there’s yours, too._

_When I think about those letters you wrote to me, my stomach churns. You were so unhappy. You were so unprotected. I can’t help but feel it was a tiny bit my fault. I was always so obsessed with our rivalry and our mutual dislike that I couldn’t see past it and recognise a boy in need. I was so blind. And stupid._

_I just want this day to be over._

 

 

May 29th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_I swear to Merlin, I’m sending Kreacher to you. If he asks me to write to you once more, I’ll Stun him. He’s always going on and on about how great you are, and how refined, how polite, how aristocratic… says you remind him of “Master Regulus, and a more noble man never lived, Master Harry” and blah fucking blah._

_He made an entire speech about your “Black cheekbones” the other day. Apparently, you have the bone structure of a true gentleman, in case you wanted to know._

_It probably irritates me so much because a tiny part of me wants to join in the Draco Malfoy Fanclub. I mean, you do have nice cheekbones. Objectively, that is. Good body proportions, too. I think you’re taller than me, now. Oh, fuck._

_I hate Kreacher._

 

 

June 5th, 1999

 

_Happy birthday, Draco._

_I’m sending you a note. For real, this once. And a basket of muffins that Kreacher made for you. When I mentioned it was your birthday, he almost had a heart attack and started baking right away._

_I wonder if you’re doing anything nice. I wonder if you’re happier than the last time I saw you._

_Don’t even ask how I know it’s your birthday. It’s embarrassing._

_Okay, I looked up your file when I was still an Auror, months ago._

_I’m pathetic._

 

 

June 5th, 1999, delivered to Malfoy Manor

 

_Dear Draco,_

_Happy birthday. I know you said you needed space, but Kreacher insisted. The muffins are from him. I mean… they’re from me, too, of course._

_Hope you’re well,_

 

_Harry Potter_

 

 

June 6th, 1999, delivered to Grimmauld Place

 

_Dear Harry,_

_Thank you for the muffins and the wishes. Thank Kreacher, too. They were very good._

_Cordially,_

 

_Draco Malfoy_

 

 

June 6th, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_You’re a dick._

_Not cordially,_

_Harry_

 

 

June 10th, 1999, delivered to Grimmauld Place

 

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_I hope you’re well. I just wanted to thank you again for those muffins. I know Draco wasn’t especially loquacious in his thank-you note, but trust me, it was very well received. I can’t say this was a year of abundance for him in terms of gifts and birthday cards. I hope this does not come across as inappropriate, but in all frankness, I do not care. Don’t give up, Mr Potter. Draco is not a bad person and even though he’s too purblind to see your attempts at being cordial for what they are, I know better. I’m afraid coldness is in his blood, and his upbringing has only exacerbated that trait. But he is not indifferent._

_Kind regards,_

 

_Narcissa Malfoy_

 

 

June 11th, 1999, delivered to Malfoy Manor

 

_Dear Mrs Malfoy,_

_I’m sure I don’t know what you mean._

 

 

July 1st, 1999

 

_Dear Draco,_

_I’ve been trying to stop obsessing about the letter your mum sent me, but as you can imagine, it’s no good. She knows something, that much is clear. I hate how knowing her tone was. But I can’t allow myself to start thinking like that, or I’ll go insane. I’m still mad at you for that ridiculous note, by the way._

_Hermione is finally done with Hogwarts. She came to see me today; took one look at me and immediately knew I still wasn’t okay. Not in terms of works, because I’ve finally made my decision on that front. She knew I was still obsessing over you and, so, being the impossible moron I am, I told her about these letters. Merlin, her eyes. She pitied me so badly. I wanted to scream at her. Anyway, she thinks, and I quote, that this is “unhealthy and dangerous” and that if I want to talk to you, I should just do it. Easy for her to say, she didn’t see that fucking note you sent to thank me for the muffins. Kreacher was very wounded, too – no, that’s not true. He still talks about the elegance of your handwriting._

_Anyway, I’ve promised her I’d try and write to you less. So, this is my last letter, if I manage to keep that promise. I probably won’t._

_I just need to feel like you’re not entirely gone from my life._

 

 

July 2nd, 1999, delivered to the office of the Hogwarts Headmistress

 

_Dear Headmistress McGonagall,_

_I hope you’re well. I’ve heard you’re doing spectacularly at your new job._

_I wonder if I might trouble you for an appointment some time this week. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you concerning my future._

_Best regards,_

_  
Harry Potter_

 

 

July 3rd, 1999, delivered to Grimmauld Place

 

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_About time. Come by tomorrow at noon. We’ll have lunch._

_Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Headmistress_

 

 

**Present day: July 31 st, 1999**

 

 

Harry petted the school owl absent-mindedly, grateful that Screech was still out collecting his birthday gifts and letters, because his jealous screeches were the worst of his vast repertoire. He opened the thick envelope as Kreacher slaved over the hot stove, getting ready for the small party Harry was hosting that afternoon. Molly would come by soon to help.

In green ink, the letter opened with: “ _Dear Mr Potter, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment”_. He couldn’t help but smile. _Very funny, Minerva_.

He went to steal some food from Kreacher when a slight tap at the window made his head turn. His heart got caught in his throat: he knew that eagle owl. He would have known that eagle amongst a thousand. Trying to contain his excitement, he opened the window and let the bird in. It was carrying a gigantic box. Unwrapping it frantically, he found a shitload of biscuits inside, decorated with various motifs. Most had the Gryffindor colours, other had golden Snitches in accurately painted streaks of frosting. His heart was jackhammering. Inside, there were three notes. He read the first one.

 

 

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_Allow me to wish you a very happy birthday. I hope you enjoy the hazelnut biscuits, they’re a family recipe. Draco had some input about the decorations. He also had some input in reminding me today was, in fact, your birthday._

_Come visit us anytime._

_Wishing you again many happy returns,_

_Narcissa Malfoy_

 

 

Harry snorted. Narcissa was really trying her darnedest to defend her arsehole of a son. Harry wondered if all mothers were this meddlesome. His experience on the subject was fairly limited to Mrs Weasley, and she wasn’t exactly a good example. Still, he appreciated it immensely, he couldn’t deny it. Despite himself, he was starting to feel a teensy bit of fondness whenever he thought about Narcissa. He opened the second note, hoping this time he would not be disappointed:

 

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy birthday. I hope you like the biscuits._

_Forgive my conciseness. I don’t know what to write. Thank you again for the muffins you sent over for my birthday, and I wish you a very nice day with your friends and family._

_There’s a note for Kreacher._

_Again… Happy birthday._

_Best wishes,_

_Draco_

 

Well, Harry thought, it was a shitty note, but it was still better than the last. He had used his name both in the addressee and in the signature. He had wished him a happy birthday twice. He had sort of apologised for being an arsehole in the first note. Harry, munching on a biscuit (Merlin, but they were _delicious_ ) decided to count that as a win. He opened the third note.

 

_Dear Kreacher,_

_We just wanted to thank you again for those excellent muffins. We know they were from Harry, but I also know you were the one who baked them. Please, let Harry know that one of the biscuits (the one with the Black insignia) is specifically for you. You were so kind to me those days after the trial, we feel like you deserve a treat._

_Best regards,_

_Draco & Narcissa Malfoy_

 

Harry felt his chest constrict. For some reason, this, this small, insignificant note meant everything. Harry had seen fist-hand how the Malfoy family treated House Elves. Draco had been raised in that environment. And here he was, sending a note and a biscuit to Kreacher, thanking him, when even Ron had never shown such courtesy to a House Elf.

Somehow, this was, to Harry, definitive proof that he had been right all along. There had been hope for Draco. Dumbledore had seen it, and now Harry had hard evidence. He couldn’t wait to show it to Hermione.

But first…

“Kreacher, come here, there’s something for you.”

After that, it took several hours and even a thimble of Firewhisky to calm the Elf down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I wasn’t going to update tonight. It’s 3AM where I am and it hasn’t been a week since the last update, so I was going to wait, but to be honest… I need a distraction. I need to stop thinking about my own heartbreak by focusing on fictional romance.   
> If there’s one good thing that can be said for being lovesick, is that it makes your heartbreak chapters better, though, so, I hope you’ve enjoyed this one! It’s the longest and it’s also my absolute favourite. Only one more to go now.   
> Thanks for Beta Reading this chapter go to Sian and the magical [Winterwolke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke), for whom I simply have no more words. Thank you, darling. You’ve helped me in more than one way, believe me.   
> Also, I think I should probably explain this: I can’t, for the life of me, see Harry as an Auror. I’ve tried, I swear, in this fanfic he was going to be an Auror, but then it got away from me. I was writing the letters and… I just can’t imagine Harry as Moody in his later years. Paranoid, mutilated, full of scars. I want something different for him. So, here we are. Sorry, Auror!Harry fans!   
> Thank you for reading, and if you want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zuzallove) and here's my [fandom Facebook!](https://www.facebook.com/zuzallove)


	4. Stupid things I do

**Chapter 4: Stupid things I do**

 

 

**Present day: August 4 th, 1999**

 

Harry was reading when the doorbell rang. He put down his textbook of _Advanced Curses and The Dangers They Pose_ (a birthday present from Hermione), marked the page and stood up. He had long given up the fantasy of opening his own door; Kreacher always beat him to it, making him feel like a bloody Lord from the Victorian Age as he just waited for his guest, whomever they may be, to show up in his recently renovated library.

However, he frowned, seeing that nobody seemed to be coming up. He walked down the stairs, wondering what the hell Kreacher was doing. Walking through the corridors of his home was a pleasure, now that the crew was done. It finally looked like a nice place, a place worth living in. 

“Kreacher, what…”

He stopped dead at the entrance, taking in the scene before him. Draco and Narcissa, both in semi-formal attire, and Kreacher, kissing their feet in an unbridled display of adoration.

“Kreacher!” he yelled, going to fetch the Elf and try to force some dignity unto him. “Stop kissing Draco’s feet!”

“Master Draco and Mistress Narcissa have come to visit,” Kreacher grossly sobbed, refusing to be separated from their shoes. His two visitors looked profoundly uncomfortable, if a little amused.

“Kreacher, there’s quite no need,” Narcissa told him, clearly as gentle as she could. Draco was shaking his head in amused incredulity.

“Kreacher is so grateful for the biscuit, Ma’am, so grateful. You are a credit to your House…”

“Kreacher, Mother and I would love some tea,” Draco interrupted him. Harry mentally congratulated him on his strategy. If there was one way to have Kreacher calm down, it was to ask him to serve them in some way. “I wonder if you could be of assistance. That is, if we’re not intruding,” he added, turning to Harry. He seemed anxious, Harry realised.

“Not at all,” he hastily replied. Kreacher howled one last compliment and Disapparated to the kitchen with a crack, leaving Harry and the Malfoys alone. Awkwardly, Harry motioned for them to come upstairs to the living room. They both knew the house very well, of course, so naturally they glanced around in curiosity as they took in the massive restyling that had taken place.

Finally, they sat down on the sofa whilst Harry went to his plush armchair. For a second, nobody spoke. Draco seemed to be unable to look at Harry’s face.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Narcissa started after a while, motioning at the living room. “It’s much different from my day, I’d say, but definitely an improvement.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied. He was so bad at small talk. “My friend Luna did the designs.”

“I see.”

Harry hoped Kreacher would turn up soon with that tea. He desperately wanted something to do with his hands.

“Have you thrown away everything that belonged to my family?” she inquired. While her tone was casual, Harry could almost perceive the silent challenge in her words. He thought that she had no right to accuse him of anything. The only two members of the Black family Harry liked had been cast out. He would have every reason to hate the family name.

“No, actually,” he had to admit nevertheless. “You can find many things here and there, things salvaged from the restyling. Some went to Kreacher, he’s nuts for them, so he has this… err. This kind of shrine in the basement. In his living quarters. Those were also renovated,” he explained. He didn’t want her to think that her family treasures were rotting away in a filthy cupboard somewhere. Why he cared was beyond him. But Narcissa, seemingly satisfied by his answer, just nodded and smiled.

“I wonder if you found any photographs? I know Aunt Walburga used to have all our best albums. There’s one of Draco when he was little I’ve been trying and trying to find…”

“Mother,” Draco warned her, his eyes narrow.

“Oh, alright,” she huffed.

“Kreacher has most of the photos,” Harry reassured her. “We can ask him when he com… oh, here he is.”

Kreacher Apparated with a tray hovering at his side. He served the tea with barely contained excitement, bowing several times every time someone thanked him for handing over the cup. At the request of bringing up the photo albums, he all but beamed.

“Right away!” he bowed.

“I know you must be wondering what we’re doing here,” Draco started, stirring his cup of tea and, infuriatingly, still avoiding Harry’s eyes.

“We’re just here to thank you again,” Narcissa interjected, sipping delicately. “Notes are no substitute for good manners.”

“Oh, there’s no need, really,” Harry tried to clarify, but at Narcissa’s sharp glance, he opted to sit there quietly and let them have their way.

“There is every need,” she insisted, flicking her long, blond hair over her shoulder. She was such an elegant woman, she looked so out of place on his comfy sofa and its colourful cushions. “You’ve saved our family, Mr Potter. A social call every now and then is the least I could do.”

Harry found himself smiling at her. She was Lucius’ wife, yes. She shared his views, or at least she used to. But Merlin, she was formidable. People bowed and scraped around Harry so much these days, he craved any lack of servility he could get his grubby hands on. Now, if only Draco could do the same.

“I quite agree,” Draco conceded, reaching for a biscuit. Harry grinned at him, too. Draco seemed taken aback, but after a moment of hesitation, he smiled back, albeit in a much subtler manner.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime. Both of you.”

Kreacher came up a few minutes later, carrying his weight in photo albums, delighted to have been of use. Narcissa’s face lit up, as if she couldn’t believe she had the chance of flick through the family photos again. She looked at each and every one, sometimes gasping, sometimes laughing, sometimes even tearfully brushing her fingertips against the old, worn surface of the picture. Harry tried to listen to the stories she told about every photo for a long as he could, but after the fifth album, he found himself looking more at Draco than at her. She and Kreacher were so engrossed in the recounting of a tale about a certain Uncle Marius, that he thought it would be safe to try and strike a conversation with Draco, who had sat rigidly without saying anything the whole time.

“I hope you know I wasn’t lying before,” he said quietly. Draco turned to look at him, surprise at having been addressed clear on his face. He even winced a bit. “You are welcome here. Anytime. And you don’t have to keep thanking me.”

Draco smiled nervously, checking to see if Narcissa and Kreacher were still wrapped up in their own little world. They were.

“She thinks you want to be my friend,” he whispered. His smile was sad and a little self-deprecatory. “I told her you’re just being polite, at least with me, but she always just assumes everyone is willing to wait in line just for a chance to have a conversation with her precious little boy. No matter how much the world proves her wrong,” he grimaced. While in other circumstances Harry would have enjoyed the conspiratorial tone, right now he couldn’t believe how matter-of-factly Draco was being about the nature of Harry’s interest in him. As if there was no other explanation other than Harry being too polite and kind towards him. As if there was nothing else on earth Harry – or anyone else, apparently – could ever want from Draco.

Harry was starting to get sick of this.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, maybe, she might be right?”

Now, there was a reaction Harry could work with. He smugly took in Draco’s shock.

“Why are you doing this?” he almost hissed at Harry. “How do you not want to die of embarrassment just being in the same room as me? How can you pretend?”

“I’m not pretending anything,” he defended himself. He had raised his voice a bit, but either Narcissa was very convincingly feigning ignorance, or she was still preoccupied with the photos. “And it’s only embarrassing if we let it. I’m not saying it wasn’t rough, because it was, but I never lied to you. I did think there was hope for you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Just because I may not be a murderous lunatic, it doesn’t mean one would automatically want to be my friend.”

“Then maybe if you’d ever talked to me, you’d know that I think you’re more than just a non-murderous lunatic,” Harry smiled, throwing a challenging look his way. Finally. He wanted to throw his fist up in celebration. He was starting to see the chinks in that carefully-constructed Slytherin armour.

“I thought you were just trying to be nice,” Draco deflated. His face was just a mask of confusion and wary hope, now, all hostility gone.

“Ever it that were true,” Harry rebutted. “Would that really be so wrong?”

“Ah! Here it is!”

Harry startled and turned to Narcissa, who was victoriously waving a photo in the air. Apparently, she had found what she was looking for.

Harry stood up and went to see, followed immediately by Draco. If Narcissa noticed the sudden tension between the two of them, she made no mention of it.

The photo was… very nice, Harry had to admit. It had probably been taken a few months after Draco’s birth, given that he was still a bundle in his mother’s arms. His face was barely visible, all rosy cheeks and a single lock of white-blond hair, but he was laughing and trying to catch Narcissa’s necklace.

It was Harry’s turn to be taken aback. They looked so young, so happy… Narcissa was still a beautiful woman, but at that age she had been simply stunning. And Lucius… Harry had trouble reconciling the image of Lucius on the day of his trial, rugged, world-weary, with that of the new father in front of him. No marks marred his face. His silver hair was luscious, elegantly tucked in a low ponytail. They were an attractive couple, Harry had no problem admitting. They had made an even more attractive son.

“He always tried to grab my necklace,” Narcissa reminisced fondly, her eyes suspiciously watery. Harry couldn’t blame her. Her family now was all but in pieces compared to the perfect image of happiness they’d been. “Always had an eye for the finer things in life.”

“Mother,” Draco complained, sending her an exasperated smile.

“Oh, very well,” she said, sniffing quietly. “Thank you for this, Mr Potter. You don’t know what this means to me.”

Harry turned to Kreacher. Without needing to tell him, the Elf came forward.

“Please, Mistress, take the photo with you. Kreacher has many others. This one belongs to you now.”

She turned to look at Harry, who just nodded, smiling at her.

“I have no words to express my gratitude,” she said in a solemn voice, standing up to look him in the eye.

“Don’t mention it,” he said as she reached for his hands. He let her, squeezing her back. “And call me Harry.”

One hour later, Harry accompanied the Malfoys to the door. The afternoon had flown by, now that he thought about it. He couldn’t wait to tell Hermione and Ron. Well. Mostly Hermione. Ron would just be perplexed and a little disgusted.

One day, Harry vowed to himself, he would make Ron see the Malfoys the way he saw them now. Not former Death Eaters and Muggle haters, but also a small, broken family, with a measure of good in their hearts that made getting to know them worth it.

“Come by anytime,” he reminded them, waving them goodbye.

“Same goes for you,” Narcissa told him. Then, with her eyes twinkling, she added: “Harry.”

All things considered, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon.

 

 

 

**August 31 st, 1999**

 

 

Harry had completely forgotten how nerve-wracking and time-consuming it was to pack a trunk for a year at Hogwarts. At least before the war he had lived in such small quarters and with so few possessions of his that he could get away with just grabbing everything and stuffing it artlessly inside, without ever worrying about forgetting anything. Dudley’s old room hadn’t exactly been a footie field.

He had no idea how he would have done it without Kreacher.

“Kreacher, I’m missing three socks. How come they’re even separated from their double to begin with?” he asked, perplexed, holding three different-coloured socks in his hands. Kreacher sighed, standing in front of his bed, where he was folding Harry’s new robes.

“Kreacher is mending them,” he replied patiently. “Kreacher will put them in the trunk tonight.”

“Oh, okay.” Harry scratched his head, feeling out of his depth. “I didn’t even know I had socks that needed mending.”

“Master Harry needs Kreacher,” the Elf nodded, as if that settled everything. Harry smiled at him. Despite his fits of hysteria, he was going to miss him. He was going to miss this place, in general.

He finally decided it was time to start a quest in search of his underwear. Harry had delayed it until the last minute because looking at the bottom of that particular drawer meant looking at the pile of unsent letters to Draco. He had kept the promise he’d made to Hermione, and had refrained from writing more. Still, the bundle was a sharp reminder of the chasm of unsaid things between the two of them.

As he took out the most acceptable-looking pairs of underwear, he started to feel a prick between his eyebrows. His former Auror sense kicking in, maybe. Harry usually had good instincts when it came to tell when something was wrong. To his horror, he was right to be alarmed.

“Kreacher…” he started, frantically emptying the drawer.

“Master Harry mustn’t make a mess!” Kreacher scolded him, tutting at the contents of the drawer on the floor and already on his way to pick them up.

“Kreacher. Listen to me. Did… did any of my underwear need mending?”

“Just one pair,” the Elf innocently replied. Harry closed his eyes. He had feared as much.

“And… you found some letters.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” Kreacher confirmed, seemingly undeterred by the growing panic on Harry’s face.

“And… and you…”

“Well, Kreacher saw they were addressed to Master Draco.” Even now, his eyes got all sparkly at the mere mention of Draco. Oh, Merlin. Draco. The letters.

“So, you…”

“So Kreacher sent them!”

Harry’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t fucking breathe. Remotely, he was aware of the tremor of his hands and the part of his brain that was already making plans. He needed to get those letters back. He needed to do _something_.

“Is Master Harry okay?”

No, Master Harry was not fucking okay. Not at all. Oh, fuck. Draco had received the letters. _Oh, Merlin. Oh, fuck._

“Why would you do that.” His tone was too low to really be an answer. Kreacher frowned.

“Well, you said, Master Harry, if Kreacher finds letters lying around, then Kreacher must send them to the addressee.”

“They were not lying around,” he growled. Now Kreacher was starting to look scared. “Those were private. You had no right.”

Ah, but karma truly was a bitch. Now he understood what Draco had felt on that day at the Ministry. To have your worst secret exposed to the single one person who was never supposed to know.

Not like this.

He tried to control his breathing, but his light-headedness indicated that he was getting way too much oxygen in his brain. He had to do something. Kreacher kept sending nervous glances towards the window, and it took several seconds for Harry to realise that the glass was shaking, and that it was his doing. He made one desperate attempt at calming down, closing his eyes. He needed to rein in his magic.

“When?”

“This morning, Master Harry. Are you okay…?”

Harry walked out and slammed the door.

He had to leave. He had to do something.

 

***

 

Harry’s attempt at locating his owl had, predictably, fallen to shambles. Owls were Untraceable for legal reasons, and at any rate, Screech was already home by the time he dragged his sorry behind back to Grimmauld Place.

Screech had returned empty-beaked. Not even a note, or a line to let him know the parcel had been received. Nothing whatsoever. Harry collapsed on his sofa, letting his face fall into his open hands. His mind had yet to escape the fog that had enveloped it since the moment he understood what Kreacher had done. He couldn’t seem to be able to stop and just think, for a second. All his senses were in overdrive.

Draco _knew_.

 _It’s not so bad_ , Hermione would probably tell him. Harry let out a bitter laugh, listening as the sound echoed in the empty room. Hermione always said that. But she also thought this could end well, bless her heart. Harry was unspeakably grateful to her for accepting his interest in Draco so easily. He knew she was probably going to be the only one, in case he ever decided to tell other people. Merlin knew he dreaded telling Ron.

Draco must be thinking the worst of him now. Or maybe not? Harry had no idea. In his letters, he had explained the process that had led him to have feelings for Draco. He hoped it transpired that it had nothing to do with power play, or blackmail, or any other horrible thing that might cross Draco’s mind.

But from Draco’s point of view, Harry had _sent him_ the letters. Harry had intended for him to see them, so, he could have written anything he wanted to manipulate Draco. It was preposterous, but so was Draco’s brain.

Or perhaps… Perhaps, now, Draco understood why Harry had tried to keep in touch with him in the past twelve months. Perhaps he saw, now, that he didn’t need to be so embarrassed during his trial. Maybe he saw things the same way Hermione did: a curious, yet convenient, twist of fate.

But even if it were so, Harry was so humiliated he was never going to be able to face him. He would never know, probably. Yes! Maybe Draco would do the gentlemanly thing, and pretend he never received them. That could happen, right?

Sighing deeply, Harry decided he couldn’t be arsed to finish packing his trunk. Let Kreacher do it. He owed him one, anyway.

Hogwarts, he thought. Hogwarts could be the solution. There were no visits allowed at Hogwarts, except for emergencies, so he would be safe until Christmas. Whatever confrontation might arise, it would have to be via correspondence.

 _That seems to be where we shine_ , Harry mentally deadpanned, appreciating the irony.

He could deal with a painfully uncomfortable letter. He’d dealt with worse. But right now, he needed to get the hell out of this state of mind. Without even thinking twice, he strode to his fireplace, lit a fire and grabbed a fistful of Floo Powder.

He needed to talk to Hermione before he left for months. She had a knack for getting his head out of his arse.

 

 

***

 

Harry felt out of place. Sure, he wasn’t much older than the oldest students around, but he was _older_. He felt somewhere between a parent and an older brother, as he dragged along his new trunk, a copy of the Prophet under his arm. He crossed the column between the two platforms, a small smile on his face from listening to a Muggleborn little boy. “It’s impossible, Mum, we’ll crash,” the boy had lamented. His mother had reassured him that it was quite impossible.

 _You’d be surprised_ , Harry had thought.

Still. It was quite the sensation being back here. He had imagined it would have only happened in case he had children of his own to send off. Now that he could see the shining cherry-red locomotive, and feel the chaos and excitement around him, he found himself wondering what the hell he had been thinking, deciding not to go back.

People stared at him, whispered, and some even outright pointed at him. He ignored them. At Hogwarts the students would get used to his presence soon. Nothing humanised a bloke more than being seen utterly failing at Potions, with goo on his face and hair from his own exploded concoction. He couldn’t wait.

He got on the train, wistfully thinking that, had he made the right decision the year before, he could have been in the same compartment as Hermione, Ginny, Luna and Neville. He could have done this with his friends by his side. A blessing in disguise, perhaps, he reasoned, looking for an empty compartment. Maybe he had to do this alone. Make it his own experience. The past events had made him too dependent on them, especially Hermione. Now he’d have no one to copy his homework from. Perhaps that would encourage him to do better this time.

And then, of course, just as he reached a peace of mind he hadn’t been able to achieve in a long time, everything went to hell. Immediately and without reserve. Because sitting alone in one of the compartments was none other than the single one person in the world who could make him change his mind about going to Hogwarts, about getting his NEWTs, about the DADA Academy.

 _Draco_.

There he was. And, on top of it all, he had one of Harry’s letters in his hand. The others were scattered on the adjacent seat, already opened. They looked quite crumpled, as if he had held them with too much strength in his fingers. Or as if they had been read more than one time.

Harry’s fight or flight instinct was out of order. He stood there, frozen, looking at Draco and trying to process what was happening. His mind was a jumble of intertwining thoughts, each more disconnected than the other.

_He knows._

_He’s going to Hogwarts._

_We’ll be in the same year._

_He knows._

_He’s reading them._

_He doesn’t look angry._

_He looks amazing today._

_He knows._

For some reason, he thought about Sirius. How he would laugh and laugh at his idiocy. _The boy likes you, now you like him and you’re this terrified? Be a bloody Gryffindor and do something._

Maybe his brain had instinctually supplied the most helpful source it could think of, because it worked. Harry found himself opening the door before he could change his mind.

“Yes, those are from me,” he started, ignoring Draco’s wince and his wide eyes. “No, I didn’t mean to send them. Kreacher found them, saw your name and thought he’d help out.”

“I know.” After the initial shock had passed, Draco had settled down, looking at him with a calm curiosity that Harry envied so much. He knew he himself looked anything but calm. “He sent me a note.”

“Right,” he nodded frantically, trying to think of what else to say, because _don’t hate me_ didn’t seem the best choice. He decided to sit down on the seat opposite Draco. His legs were unsteady. “I know this is insane, and a mess, and so, so fucked up, more than I thought it was possible. I wasn’t planning on telling you like this. I wasn’t planning on telling you, period.”

“Why?” Draco inquired, suspicion all over his face.

“Because of that,” Harry accused him, pointing at his general expression. Draco rose his eyebrows. “Every time I do something you look for ulterior motives or hidden insults and I knew, I just knew that you’d have thought something fishy was going on.”

“So… It’s not?”

“No!” he shouted. Hearing a giggle from outside, he decided to Colloportus the door, cast a Muffliato and even Obscuro the glass panel. Draco observed him, a slightly alarmed look on his face. Harry realised that it might have seemed like he was trying to prevent him from escaping, and mentally slapped himself. “What, Draco? What reasons could I possibly have to say those things unless they were true?”

 _Oh, that shut him up_ , Harry gloated. He could almost see the intricate, nonsensical conspiracy theories forming in Draco’s Slytherin brain. The moment Draco’s shoulders sagged, he knew he had won this round: there was no theory, no plot that could have explained Harry’s behaviour. Assuming he was telling the truth was the only way the whole debacle made sense.

“It could be a very elaborate prank,” Draco suggested, incapable of admitting defeat. Harry couldn’t help it: he laughed.

“If that’s what you’re going for, then why not consider the effects of the Imperius Curse?”

Draco smiled back. A tiny, precious little thing that Harry instantly knew he would treasure forever.

“Polyjuice potion,” Draco nodded, faking seriousness. “Maybe you’re Weasely in disguise. Ready to document the moment you reveal it’s a prank with a hidden camera.”

“Nargles,” Harry added, trying to play along, and failing. His smile was too wide. “Always a good explanation for everything.”

Draco laughed, and even if it came to nothing, or to more heartbreak… now it would have all been worth it. It was all it took for Harry to realise that, somehow, it was going to be fine.

“Or maybe,” he continued, admiring the way Draco’s eyes crinkled at the corner when he laughed. He had never seen him laugh this way, he noticed. Not with him, at any rate. Only ever at him. “Maybe, as unlikely as that sounds, I kind of fancy you. And maybe, just maybe… the planets have aligned in some weird, fucked up way, and you kind of fancy me back.”

Draco’s smile turned secretive, and time became a distant concept. Every sound appeared distant, muffled, covered by the rush of his own blood in his ears. His hands were sweaty, his heart was jack-hammering, but for better or for worse, this moment was going to decide everything.

“It’s a good thing you obscured that panel.”

“Wh…”

And then his perception reduced to a lapful of Draco, agile fingers locking behind his neck, and the warm, velvety lips he had craved for more than a year.

Maybe much longer than that.

It took Harry a good five minutes to re-establish a connection with his brain. Every time he tried to make sense of what was happening, his attention got snatched by Draco’s wandering hands, by the insistence of his mouth on his, a tongue prying his lips open, a particular sound Draco made when Harry grabbed him by the arse to stabilise him on his lap, a whiff of cologne getting him dizzy.

“Wait, wait,” he finally managed to sneak in between kisses. “Just wait a second.” He grabbed Draco’s hips – much slenderer than his – and forced him to let some air between them. Draco looked at him like he was a moron for interrupting this. Taking in his mussed hair (and how glorious was it to finally see that?) and reddened lips, Harry really couldn’t have contradicted him. How on earth was he supposed to resist?

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” he explained. Draco rolled his eyes.

“There’s been too many words between us. Literally.” Harry laughed, raising a hand to stroke one perfect, aristocratic cheekbone. “I want this, and we’re alone, behind locked doors, trapped for hours. Do you want this, or would you rather we talked some more about our _feelings_?” he said, his tone dripping with irony. Harry hadn’t seen sarcastic, sharp-witted Malfoy in a while. Merlin, he’d missed him.

“Yeah, okay.”

After that, it became much more frantic. Harry kept stopping to check on the door: anyone with a wand could have barged in, in theory. Fortunately, they weren’t interrupted, and the first look at Draco’s naked, pale chest made Harry’s mouth water.

“You have the most perfect complexion I’ve ever seen,” he murmured reverently, stroking him and purposefully avoiding the old scars. That was a conversation for another day.

“I have the most English complexion you’ve ever seen,” Draco replied as he made a mess of Harry’s hair. As if it needed any help.

Draco latched onto his neck, leaving colourful bruises all along, while Harry finally took him out of his pants. Seconds later, Draco mimicked him, and when their cocks brushed against each other’s, they both gasped and braced themselves. Draco closed his eyes, rocking gently against him, and Harry stared at him, transfixed. The elegant column of his neck. The way the dim lights in the compartment danced on his sharp features, making him look almost ethereal. He understood in a moment of shocking clarity that this was always meant to happen. If the crazy, disturbing, horrible series of events that had brought them to this point had managed to do so, then it had to be destiny. Somehow, somewhere, there must have been a silly little Prophecy predicting this exact moment. Draco had always been a part of what Harry wanted. At first, he had wanted to hate him. Then, to defeat him. Then to challenge him. Then to help him. And now… now he wanted to eat him alive. But he also wanted to see those bloody grey eyes.

“Look at me,” he growled, grabbing Draco’s face with one hand – a little too rough, maybe – and bringing it to eye level. If Draco was alarmed, he did not show it. In fact, going by the subtle twitch of his member in Harry’s hand, he might have even liked it.

“Look at me,” he repeated, their lips brushing, but not quite touching. Draco obeyed, staring at him as they both neared their climax. So, Draco liked it a little rough. He could work with that.

Not that he had any experience on that front. All he and Ginny had ever done had been slow, careful, delicate. There wasn’t a hint of gentleness in this, however. Draco’s fingernails were leaving indentures on his arm. His neck must have been a constellation of marks. Just as Draco gasped at one particularly efficient twist of his wrist, Harry bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

It took two seconds for Draco to arch and come all over his hand. He widened his eyes, seemingly taken by surprise, and shuddered for several seconds, as Harry took in every nuance of his transfixed expression. He was never going to forget this. No matter what. It was seared into his brain.

“Let me go,” Draco said in a broken whisper a moment later. Harry released their cocks and Draco’s face, wondering if he’d done something wrong. But then, Draco got on his knees right there, in the Express’ compartment. His eyes afire, he took one of Harry’s hand and placed it in his hair. Harry was not prepared for the moment Draco’s mouth closed on his cock. Definitely inexperienced, just as he was, but so attentive. So enthusiastic. Harry couldn’t wait to do this to him… if a second time was even on the table.

He grasped Draco’s hair tight, pulling almost, but if his whimper was any indication, Draco liked it. He couldn’t go very far down, impeded by his untrained gag reflex, but he made up for it with his hands, stroking Harry where his tongue couldn’t reach and holding the juncture of his hip with the other. Harry came embarrassingly fast, tugging on Draco’s hair to warn him. He stayed right there. He only emerged about a minute later, coughing, but he never stopped stroking Harry to softness.

Harry collapsed on his seat, wondering where all his energy went.

“About time,” Draco groaned, getting up slowly. “Afterwards, when this feels a bit more normal, we’re going to talk about why it took you so bloody long.”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry smiled. He took out his wand and cast a Scourgify spell. He also unlocked the door, but decided to keep the panel obscured. After all, he had every intention of snogging Draco again.

“My circumstances were different,” Draco sniffed primly, inspecting his newly-clean robes and nodding in approval. “Besides, you had the certainty that your feelings would have been returned.”

“Oh, please!” Harry scoffed. “I had no certainties. Every time you saw me, you looked like you wanted to run for the hills. I was sure you’d changed your mind.”

“That’s because you were always hovering, never speaking honestly, looking like you were afraid I’d try to send an Avada Kedavra your way,” Draco replied, crossing his arms. His mask of indignation was betrayed by the mischievous twinkle of his eyes, though. By now, Harry was arguing just for the sake of it. He knew their timing had actually worked in their favour.  A year ago, they wouldn’t have been ready for this. Now… now they could at least try.

“I’m not the only one who needs to work on their communication skills, here,” Harry grumbled. Draco turned to look him dead in the eyes.

“Okay. Let’s see how effectively I’m communicating now. You have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen, and when you came, it almost got me hard again.”

Harry stared at Draco.

“That’s… effective.”

 

***

 

Draco and Harry spent the entire trip together. When the trolley lady came, they bought their weight in sweets. Harry discovered that it was actually possible to have fun with him, laughing and throwing Jellies at each other as they shared their loot. Draco had the dry, sarcastic kind of humour that Harry favoured. He found himself unable to stop laughing.

“So, Hogwarts?” he asked him, sharing a piece of Chocolate Frog with him. The tip of Draco’s tongue darted out, teasing his finger for a second before accepting the morsel. Harry smiled so widely, he must have looked ridiculous. Hours in, and he still couldn’t stop smiling.

“Did you really not know?” Draco asked back, rustling in search of a Pumpkin Pastry. “I couldn’t go last year because… well, I couldn’t really go anywhere last year in September,” he shrugged. Harry nodded. There would be time to talk about the ugly stuff, he knew now. There was no rush. “And as Malfoys these days are about as popular as Dragon Pox… I need all the help I can get if I want to find a decent job.”

“Everything sounds obvious when you say it in that tone,” Harry teased him. Their legs were stretched over the seats in front of them.

“Then pardon me for stating the obvious,” Draco deadpanned. Harry couldn’t resist. He pecked his lips again. “I think I ought to send Kreacher a 100 pounds cake to thank him, don’t you?”

“With the Black insignia in frosting,” Harry nodded, all seriousness.

“Maybe a wafer with Mother’s face on it.”

“And you’d have to deliver it in person.”

The sun long set, it was only a matter of minutes before they reached Hogwarts. Harry found himself craving it. The profile of the castle. The warmth of the Great Hall. And, of course…

“Do you have any idea what the sleeping arrangements are for eighth years?” he asked, feigning ignorance on the matter.

“Why, yes,” Draco easily replied. “I spoke to the Headmistress about it. There is no eighth year, in fact. Just me and some other student, who I mistakenly assumed would be a dim-witted witch or wizard that had been held back.” He looked at Harry with a measuring look. “Not so far from the truth, actually.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Anyway,” he continued, turning to nuzzle Harry’s neck. Harry closed his eyes. “Since there’s only two of us, the good Headmistress decided we didn’t need a whole dormitory to ourselves after all. So, she gave us a room. To be shared, of course.”

“I see,” Harry gasped, lifting a hand to Draco’s hair to hold him there. The panel remained mercifully obscured.

“Should be comfortable enough. I think it used to be Slughorn’s office. Twin beds, though.”

“Oh, that’s easily corrected.”

Draco let go from his neck to look him in the eyes. His smile made him look ten years younger, and Harry’s heart sang.

“This is definitely going to be an interesting year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, okay, so I wanted to wait a few more days before publishing the last chapter but from tomorrow on I won't have any time to sleep, eat or think for 7 to 10 days, and the comments have been so lovely I didn't want to make you wait, so... here it is.  
> First of all: this chapter's Beta Reading is the sole work of [Winterwolke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke), my amazing Beta and, now, friend. Our chats have been just... lovely, you have such keen eyes and your help is simply invaluable. And people, she is always looking for new challenges as a Beta, and she's just AMAZING.  
> Secondly, I cannot believe this is over already. I usually start writing so enthusiastically, then the fic sits on my pc for months because I'm too insecure to share it, and then in the blink of an eye, it's all over.  
> I'm so grateful for your comments and kudos. Really. It goes beyond words. When you're so self-conscious, and this isn't even your native language, it's all so daunting, but then I can always go back and read the comments and it lifts me up immensely. I loved every single one.  
> I have nothing to say about the chapter per se, save that this is the only way I could see the story ending. No epilogue. No follow-up. Just some old-fashioned smut in a train compartment. As they say, there have been too words: it began with so much complexity that it needed to end simply.  
> I loved writing this. Every moment, even when I was screwing up the timelines and even when certain chapters received more feedback, I was always just so glad.  
> Thank you everyone.  
> Just thank you.  
> If you want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zuzallove) and here's my [fandom Facebook!](https://www.facebook.com/zuzallove)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow.  
> Woooooow.  
> WOOOOOOOOOOOW.  
> Okay. This has been sitting in my PC for three months. Three. I’m finally publishing it. It’s sooo surreal.  
> Okay, first things first: the story is already written out. It’s four chapters and I will be updating regularly, if my Betas allow.  
> Speaking of said Betas: many, many thanks to Sian, Only_1_Life, and especially [Winterwolke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke), whose precision and accuracy are simply out of the ordinary. I feel extremely lucky.  
> The story plays a little bit with the actual timeline, in particular with the Lovegood ambush and with the fact that, ahem, Hagrid’s hut was actually lived in during the entire plot. Let’s just call those poetic licenses.  
> The title is Italian, my native language – so please be merciful, English is my second language – and it means “black on white”, generally referring to writing and more precisely, to something that can be proved because it is in writing.  
> Okay, for now, I think this is it. I genuinely hope you like it. This is the hardest I’ve ever worked on a fanfic, but so far, it’s been a blast.  
> Thank you for reading, and if you want to chat, here's my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zuzallove) and here's my [fandom Facebook!](https://www.facebook.com/zuzallove)


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